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.eonardo  da  Vin< 


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GIFT   OF 
Mrs.   William  Denman 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

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THE    ROMANCE    OF 
LEONARDO    DA    VINCI 


The    Forerunner 


By  DMITRI  MEREJKOWSKI 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  GODS.  Authorized  English 
Version  by  Herbert  Trench.     120   .        .    $1.50 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI: 
THE  FORERUNNER.  (The  Resurrection  of  the 
Gods.)  Authorized  English  Version  edited  by 
Herbert  Trench.    120      .       .       .       .    $1.50 

THE  ANTI-CHRIST.  (Peter  the  Great  and  Alexis.) 
Translated  by  HERBERT  Trench.  120.  {In  Press.) 

TOLSTOI  AS  MAN  AND  ARTIST,  With  an  Essay 
on  Dostoievski.    Authorized  English  Version. 


Q.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

AFTER  THE  PORTRAIT   IN   THE   UFFIZI   GALLERY,    FLORENCE 


Cbrist  ano  Hntf*Gbrtet 


The  Romance 

of 

Leonardo  da  Vinci 

The  Forerunner 

By 

Dimitri  Merejkowski 

Author  of  M  The  Death  of  the  Gods." 


Exclusively  Authorised  Translation  from  the  Russian  of 
"  The  Resurrection  of  the  Gods." 

By  Herbert  Trench 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

1904 


PRESERVATION 
COPY  ADDED 

.JMALTOBE 
RETAINED 

JAN  14  1994 


This  Romance  is  the  Second  of  the  historical 
Trilogy,  of  which  the  first  volume,  dealing  with 
the  times  of  the  Emperor  Julian,  was  the  Death 
of  the  Gods.  The  present  story  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance  has  been  published  in  Russia  as 
The  Resurrection  of  the  Gods  ;  in  France  under 
the  title,  The  Romance  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 
This  translation  is  direct  from  the  Russian,  and 
is  the  only  one  in  the  English  language  which 
is  or  will  be  authorised  by  the  Author. 


*{~  y  flUa  ■   U^^^    AJ^^^O^^ 


*     •  •  *    •  • 


Published,  July,  1902 
Reprinted,  October,  1902  ;  February,  1903  ;  July,  1904 


*$t 

vTet 

eJuz* 

St.  Petersbourg,  3,  ix,  1901. 

X  Monsieur  Herbert  Trench  j'accorde  l'autorisation 
exclusive  de  traduire  du  Russe  en  Anglais  mon  livre  La 
RSsurrection  des  Dieux. 

Dmitri  Mkrejkowski. 


M126623 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

PAGH 

THE    WHITE   SHE-DEVIL — 1494 3 

BOOK    II 
ECCE   DEUS — ECCE   HOMO — 1494  ...         36 

BOOK  III 
THE    POISONED    FRUITS — 1494 57 

BOOK  IV 
THE    WITCHES'    SABBATH — 1494  .  ....         82 

BOOK  V 
THY    WILL    BE    DONE — 1494 T04 

BOOK  VI 
THE    DIARY    OF   GIOVANNI    BOLTRAFFIO — 1494-1495     .       1 29 

BOOK  VII 
THE    BONFIRE   OF    VANITIES — 1496        .  .  .  •       I5I 

BOOK  VIII 
THE    AGE    OF    GOLD — 1496-1497  .  172 

BOOK    IX 
THE   SIMILITUDES — 1498-1499 2IO 


viii  CONTENTS 

BOOK  X 

PACK 

CALM    WATERS — 1499-1500  .  .  260 

BOOK  XI 
THERE   SHALL   BE   WINGS — 1500  ....      300 

BOOK  XII 
*AUT   CfiSAR   AUT    NIHIL' — 1500-1503         .  .  .      320 

BOOK  XIII 
THE   PURPLE   BEAST — 1503 36 1 

BOOK   XIV 
MONNA   LISA    GIOCONDA — 1503-1506  ....       385 

BOOK  XV 
THE    HOLY   INQUISITION — 1506-1513  ....      411 

BOOK   XVI 
LEONARDO,     MICHELANGELO,     AND     RAPHAEL — 1 5 13- 

1515 425 

BOOK  XVII 
DEATH — THE    WINGED   PRECURSOR — 1516-15IQ  .  .      437 

EPILOGUE  .  .  .  .  •  .  •  .      459 


1 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI 


1  Sentio  rediit  ab  inferis  Julianus.' 

(I  feel  that  Julian  has  risen  again.)— PETRARCH. 

•  We  see  the  encounter  of  vast  contraries :  Man-god  against  God, 
man— Apollo  Belvedere  against  Christ.'— Dostoievsky. 


BOOK    I 


THE   WHITE    SHE-DEVIL 1 494 

'  At  Siena  was  discovered  another  statue  of  Venus,  to  the  huge  joy  of 
the  inhabitants.  A  great  concourse,  with  much  feasting  and  honour,  set 
it  up  over  the  fountain  called  M  II  Fonte  Gaja,"  as  an  adornment.  .  .  . 

'  But  great  tribulation  having  come  upon  the  land  by  reason  of  the 
Florentines,  there  arose  one  of  the  council,  a  citizen,  and  spake  in  this 
wise  :  "  Fellow-citizens,  since  the  finding  of  this  figure  we  have  had  much 
evil  hap,  and  if  we  consider  how  strictly  idolatry  is  prohibited  by  our 
faith,  what  shall  we  think  but  that  God  hath  sent  us  this  adversity  by 
reason  of  sin  ?  I  advise  that  we  remove  this  image  from  the  public  square 
of  the  city,  deface  it,  break  it  in  pieces,  and  send  it  to  be  buried  in  the 
territory  of  the  Florentines." 

'All  agreeing  with  this  opinion,  they  confirmed  it  by  a  decree  ;  and  the 
thing  was  put  into  execution,  and  the  statue  was  buried  within  our  con- 
fines. '    (Notes  of  the  Florentine  sculptor,  Lorenzo  Ghiberti%  XVth.  century. ) 


In  Florence  the  guild  of  dyers  had  their  shops  hard  by  the 
Canonica  of  Orsanmichele.  The  houses  were  disfigured  by 
every  sort  of  shed,  outhouse,  and  projection  on  crooked 
wooden  supports ;  tiled  roofs  leaned  so  close  to  each  other 
as  almost  to  shut  out  the  sky,  and  the  street  was  dark 
even  in  the  glare  of  noon.  In  the  doorways  below,  samples 
of  foreign  woollen-stuffs  were  suspended,  sent  to  Florence 
to  be  dyed  with  litmus-lichen,  with  madder,  or  with  woad 
steeped  in  a  corrosive  of  Tuscan  alum.  The  street  was 
paved  roughly,  and  in  the  kennel  flowed  many-coloured 
streams,  oozings  from  the  dye  vats.  Shields  over  the  portals 
of  the  principal  shops,  or  Fondacki,  were  blazoned  with  the 
arms  of  the  Calimala  (so  the  guild  of  dyers  was  named),  'on 
a  field  gules,  an  eagle  or,  upon  a  ball  of  wool  argent.' 

Within  one  of  these  Fondachi,  among  huge  account-books 
and  piles  of  commercial  documents,  sat   Messer  Cipriano 

I 


4  THE  FORERUNNER 

Buonaccorsi,  a  worthy  Florentine  merchant,  and  Master  of 
the  Noble  Guild  of  the  Calimala. 

It  was  a  cold  March  evening,  and  damp  exhaled  from  the 
choked  and  cumbered  cellars ;  the  old  man  was  a-cold,  and 
he  drew  his  worn  squirrel-mantle  tightly  round  him.  A  goose- 
quill  was  stuck  behind  his  ear,  and  with  omniscient,  though 
weak  and  myopic  eyes,  that  seemed  at  once  careless  and 
attentive,  he  conned  the  parchment  leaves  of  his  ponderous 
ledger;  debit  to  the  left,  credit  to  the  right;  divided  by 
rectangular  lines,  and  annotated  in  a  round,  even  hand, 
unadorned  by  stops,  or  capitals,  or  Arabic  numerals,  which 
were  considered  frivolous  innovations,  impertinent  in  business- 
books.  On  the  first  page  was  inscribed  in  imposing 
characters :  *  In  the  name  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  and  the 
most  blessed  Virgin  Mary,  this  book  is  begun  in  the  year  of 
the  Lord  mcccclxxxxiv.'  |#<H 

Having  corrected  an  error  in  the  number  of  bales  received 
in  pledge,  and  satisfied  himself  as  to  the  latest  entries  of 
podded  pepper,  Mecca  ginger,  and  bundles  of  cinnamon, 
Messer  Cipriano  leaned  wearily  against  the  back  of  his  chair, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  meditated  upon  an  epistle  he  must  indite 
for  his  emissary  at  the  Wool  Fair  in  Montpellier  of  France. 
Just  then  some  one  entered,  and  the  old  man  raising  his 
glance  saw  his  contadino^  Grillo,  who  rented  from  him  certain 
vineyards  and  fields  belonging  to  his  mountain-villa  of  San 
Gervaso  in  the  valley  of  the  Mugnone.  Grillo  did  obsequious 
reverence,  tendering  a  basket  of  brown  eggs,  carefully  packed, 
while  at  his  belt  clucked  two  fat  chickens,  their  feet  tied  and 
their  heads  hanging. 

'Ah,  00110!'  exclaimed  Buonaccorsi,  with  his  customary 
urbanity,  'has  the  Lord  been  gracious  to  you?  Meseems, 
we  have  the  spring  season  at  last.' 

'  Messer  Cipriano,  to  us  old  men  even  the  spring  brings  no 
delight.  Our  old  bones  ache  worse  than  before  and  cry 
louder  for  the  grave.  I  have  brought  your  worship  eggs  and 
young  cockerels  for  Easter.'  And  he  screwed  up  his  greenish 
eyes,  revealing  innumerable  small  creases  all  round  them,  the 
effect  of  rude  acquaintance  with  wind  and  sun.  Buonaccorsi, 
having  thanked  him  for  the  gift,  turned  to  business. 

'  Well,  have  you  the  men  ready  at  the  farm  ?  Can  we  get 
all  done  before  day-break  ? • 

Grillo  sighed  prodigiously,  and  meditated,  leaning  heavily 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  5 

on  his  staff.  'All  is  ready,  and  there  are  men  enough.  But 
I  ask  you,  Messer  Cipriano,  were  it  not  better  we  waited  a 
little?' 

*  Nay,  old  man,  you  have  said  yourself  that  we  must  not 
wait,  lest  the  matter  become  known.' 

'True.  Yet  the  thing  is  terrible.  It  is  sin.  And  the 
days  now  are  holy-days,  days  of  fasting ;  and  our  work  is  of 
another  sort.' 

'  Well,  I  will  take  the  sin  on  my  own  soul.  Fear  naught ; 
I  will  not  betray  you.  Only  tell  me — shall  we  find  what 
we  seek  ? ' 

'  Why  should  we  not  ?  We  have  signs  to  guide  us.  Did 
not  our  fathers  know  of  the  hill  behind  the  mill  at  the  Humid 
Hollow?  And  at  night  there's  the  Jack  o'  Lantern  over 
San  Giovanni.  That  means  lots  of  this  rubbish  all  round. 
I  have  heard  tell  that  not  long  ago,  when  they  were  digging- 
in  the  vineyard  at  Marignola,  they  drew  a  whole  devil  fror 
out  the  clay.' 

'  A  devil  ?    What  manner  of  devil  ? ' 

'  A  bronze  one  with  horns.  He  had  hairy  legs — goat's 
legs — with  hoofs.  And  a  face  which  laughs.  And  he  dances 
on  one  leg  and  snaps  his  fingers.  'Twas  very  old ;  all  green 
and  crumbled.' 

1  What  did  they  do  with  it  ? ' 

'They  made  it  into  a  bell  for  the  new  chapel  of  San 
Michele.' 

Messer  Cipriano  was  beside  himself.  '  Grillo,  you  should 
have  told  me  of  this  before ! ' 

1  Your  worship  had  gone  to  Siena.' 

'  You  should  have  sent  after  me.  I  would  have  despatched 
some  one — I  would  have  come  myself — I  would  have  grudged 
no  expense — I  would  have  cast  ten  bells  for  them  in  its 
place.  The  idiots !  To  make  a  Dancing  Faun — perhaps  a 
real  Scopas — into  a  bell ! ' 

'Ay,  they  showed  their  folly.  But,  Messer  Cipriano,  be 
not  wroth.  They  are  punished  :  for  since  they  hung  that  new 
bell  the  worms  have  eaten  the  apples,  and  the  olives  have 
failed.     And  the  tone  of  the  bell  is  bad.' 

'How  so?' 

'That's  not  for  me  to  say.  It  hasn't  the  proper  note. 
It  brings  no  joy  to  the  Christian  heart.  Somehow  it  sounds 
unmeaning.      'Tis  what  one  might  expect :  one  can't  get  a 


6  THE  FORERUNNER 

Christian  bell  out  of  a  dumb  devil.  Be  it  not  spoke  to  anger 
your  worship,  but,  Messer  Cipriano,  the  good  Father  is  right ; 
of  all  this  filth  they  dig  up,  no  good  is  going  to  come.  We 
must  go  to  work  with  prudence  and  defend  ourselves  with 
the  cross  and  with  prayers;  for  the  Devil  is  subtle  and 
powerful  and  the  son  of  a  dog,  and  he  creeps  in  at  one  ear 
and  out  at  the  other.  We  were  led  into  temptation  even  by 
that  stone  arm  which  Zaccheo  found  at  the  Hill  of  the  Mill. 
'Twas  the  Evil  One  tempted  us,  and  we  came  to  harm  by  it. 
Lord  defend  us !    'Tis  dreadful  even  to  remember ! ' 

•  How  got  you  it,  Grillo?' 

1  The  thing  happened  last  autumn  on  the  Eve  of  Martin- 
mas. We  were  sitting  us  down  to  sup,  and  the  good  woman 
had  put  the  porridge  on  the  table,  when  my  nephew  Zaccheo 
came  bursting  in  from  his  digging  in  the  field  on  the  Hill 
of  the  Mill.  "  Master !  O  master ! "  he  cried,  and  his  face 
was  all  drawn  and  changed,  and  his  teeth  chattered.  "The 
Lord  be  with  you,  my  son!"  says  I,  and  he  went  on:  "O 
Lord,  master  !  there 's  a  corpse  creeping  out  from  under  the 
pots !  Go  yourself,  master,  and  see."  So  we  crossed  our- 
selves and  we  went.  By  this  time  'twas  dark,  and  the  moon 
was  getting  up  behind  the  trees.  There  was  the  old  olive- 
stump,  and  beside  it  where  the  earth  was  dug  was  some 
shining  thing.  I  stooped,  and  saw  'twas  an  arm,  very  white, 
and  with  round  dainty  fingers,  like  those  of  the  city  ladies. 
"Good  Lord,"  thinks  I,  "what  sort  of  devilment  is  this?" 
I  let  down  the  lantern  into  the  hole,  and  that  arm  moved 
and  signalled  to  me  with  its  finger !  That  was  more  than  I 
could  bear,  and  I  cried  out,  and  my  knees  bent  under  me. 
But  Monna  Bonda,  my  grandame,  whom  they  call  a  wise 
woman,  and  who  has  all  her  life  in  her  though  she  be  so  old, 
chided  me,  saying,  "Fool,  what  is  it  you  fear?  Do  not  your 
eyes  tell  you  yon  thing  is  neither  of  the  living  nor  of  the 
dead,  but  is  a  stone  ? "  And  she  snatched  at  it  and  pulled 
it  forth  out  of  the  earth.  "Nay,  grandame,"  I  bade  her, 
"let  it  be;  touch  it  not;  rather  let  me  bury  it  lest  mischief 
befall  us."  "  Not  so,"  quoth  she ;  "  but  take  we  it  to  the 
church,  and  let  the  Father  exorcise  it."  But  she  deceived  me, 
for  she  brought  it  not  to  the  priest,  but  hid  it  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  where  in  her  cot  she  keeps  gear  of  all  sorts — rags, 
unguents,  and  herbals,  and  spells.  And  when  I  made 
insistence,   she  insisted  too  and  kept  it.      And  from   that 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  7 

day  'tis  very  certain  the  old  beldame  hath  done  cures  of 
great  marvel.  Is  it  a  toothache?  she  doth  but  touch  the 
cheek  with  the  idol  and  the  swelling  is  gone.  She  salves 
fevers,  colics,  falling  sickness.  If  a  cow  is  in  labour  and 
cannot  bring  forth,  Monna  Bonda  touches  her  with  that  same 
stone  hand,  and  the  cow  lows,  and  there 's  the  calf,  kicking 
in  the  straw.  Tho  noise  of  these  wonders  has  gone  abroad, 
and  the  old  woman  has  swelled  her  money-chest.  But  no 
good  has  come  of  it,  for  Don  Faustino  has  not  allowed  me 
one  day's  peace.  He  speaks  against  me  in  his  preaching, 
in  church  before  them  all.  He  calls  me  the  son  of  perdition 
and  the  child  of  the  Devil,  and  he  declares  he  will  tell  of  it  to 
the  bishop,  and  will  deny  me  the  Communion.  The  boys  run 
after  me  in  the  street,  and  point  and  say,  "  There  goes  Grillo, 
the  sorcerer,  and  his  grandame  is  a  witch,  and  they  have 
sold  themselves  to  the  Evil  One."  Even  in  the  night  I  get 
no  rest.  Meseems  that  stone  hand  rises  up  and  lies  softly 
on  my  neck,  and  then  of  a  sudden  takes  me  by  the  throat 
and  would  strangle  me,  till  I  essay  to  cry  out,  and  cannot. 
"  Bad  jesting,  this,"  I  think  to  myself.  So  at  last  one  morn- 
ing, ere  it  was  light,  the  old  woman  having  gone  forth  to 
pick  her  herbs,  I  got  up  and  broke  open  her  cot,  and  found 
the  thing,  and  brought  it  to  you.  Lotto,  the  rag-picker, 
would  have  given  me  ten  soldi  iox  it,  and  of  you  I  only  had 
eight ;  but  I  am  ready  to  sacrifice  not  only  two  soldi,  but  even 
my  life  for  your  worship.  May  the  Lord  give  you  His  holy 
benediction,  and  to  Madonna  Angelica,  and  to  your  sons 
and  your  grandsons  ! ' 

1  It  seems,  then,  by  what  you  tell  me,  Grillo,'  said  Messer 
Cipriano  thoughtfully,  'that  we  shall  have  findings  on  that 
Hill  of  the  Mill?' 

'We  are  like  enough  to  find,'  said  the  old  man  with  a  pro- 
found sigh ;  '  only  we  may  not  tell  Don  Faustino.  If  he  hear 
of  it  he  will  dress  my  head  without  a  comb ;  and  he  can  do 
your  worship  a  mischief,  too,  for  he  can  raise  the  people  and 
not  let  you  finish  your  work.  Well,  well — we  must  pray  the 
Lord  to  show  us  mercy !  But  in  the  meanwhile,  my  honoured 
benefactor,  do  not  abandon  me,  but  say  a  word  for  me  to  the 
judge.' 

'What?  anent  the  strip  of  land  the  miller  would  take 
from  you  ? ' 

'  That  is  it,  master.     The  miller  is  a  cunning  rascal,  and  he 


8  THE  FORERUNNER 

knows  how  to  catch  the  devil  by  the  tail.  I,  you  see,  gave  a 
heifer  to  the  judge ;  but  the  miller  gave  him  a  lined  cow.  I 
fear  me  the  judge  will  decide  for  the  miller,  because  the  suit 
is  not  yet  concluded,  and  already  the  cow  has  a  fine  bull-calf. 
I  pr'ythee,  speak  for  me — father  that  you  are  to  me.  This 
which  we  do  on  the  Hill  of  the  Mill,  I  do  only  for  your 
kindness.  There  is  no  other  I  would  have  let  bring  such  a 
sin  upon  my  conscience.' 

*  Be  at  ease,  Grille  I  will  speak  for  you ;  the  judge  is  my 
friend.  Now  take  your  steps  to  the  kitchen,  and  eat  and 
drink.     To-night  we  will  go  together  to  San  Gervaso.' 

The  old  man,  with  many  reverences,  went  out,  and  Messer 
Cipriano  betook  himself  to  his  little  chamber  near  the  store- 
house. It  was  a  museum  of  marbles  and  bronzes,  hung  on 
walls,  arranged  on  benches.  Medals  and  old  coins  were 
assorted  on  cloth-covered  benches ;  and  fragments  of  statues, 
not  yet  pieced  together,  were  waiting  in  huge  cases.  Through 
his  trade-agents  in  many  countries  he  procured  antiquities 
from  all  classic  grounds  ;  from  Athens,  Smyrna,  Halicarnassus, 
Cyprus,  Leucosia,  Rhodes,  from  the  remoter  Egypt,  from  the 
heart  of  the  Levant.  The  Master  of  the  Guild  of  the  Calimala 
glanced  over  his  treasures,  and  then  sank  into  profound  con- 
sideration of  customs-dues  on  the  import  of  fleeces ;  and 
finally  composed  the  letter  to  his  factor  at  the  Wool  Fair  in 
Montpellier. 

II 

Meantime,  in  the  hinder-part  of  the  warehouse,  heaped 
with  bales,  and  lighted  only  by  the  glimmer  of  a  lamp  before 
the  image  of  the  Madonna,  three  lads,  Dolfo,  Antonio,  and 
Giovanni  were  gossiping  together.  Dolfo,  Messer  Buonac- 
corsi's  clerk,  a  red-haired,  snub-nosed,  good-natured  youth, 
was  entering  the  number  of  ells  of  cloth  which  Antonio  da 
Vinci,  old  for  his  years,  with  glassy  eyes  and  thin,  rough, 
black  locks,  was  rapidly  measuring  with  the  Florentine 
measure,  called  a  canna :  Giovanni  Boltrafiio,  a  student  of 
painting  from  Milan,  a  big  boy  of  nineteen,  but  shy  and 
awkward,  with  innocent,  sad,  grey  eyes,  and  an  irresolute 
expression,  was  sitting  cross-legged  on  a  made-up  bale,  and 
listening  with  all  his  ears. 

*  This  is  what  we  have  come  to,'  cried  Antonio  excitedly ; 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  9 

1  digging  heathen  gods  out  of  the  ground ! '  Then  he  added, 
dictating  to  Dolfo,  'of  brown  Scotch  faced-cloth.  32  braca'a,1 
6  fingers,  8  nails.'  Then,  having  folded  the  measured  piece, 
he  threw  it  into  its  place,  and  raising  his  finger  with  the 
gesture  of  a  menacing  prophet,  in  imitation  of  Fra  Giro- 
lamo  Savonarola,  he  cried,  "  Gladius  Dei  super  terram  cito 
et  velociter!  In  the  island  of  Patmos  San  Giovanni  had 
a  vision :  he  saw  the  angel  lay  hold  on  the  dragon,  that  old 
serpent,  which  is  the  Devil,  and  bind  him  a  thousand  years, 
and  cast  him  into  the  bottomless  pit,  and  shut  him  up,  and 
set  a  seal  upon  him,  that  he  should  deceive  the  nations  no 
more  till  the  thousand  years  should  be  fulfilled.  To-day 
Satan  has  been  released  from  his  prison ;  to-day  the  thousand 
years  are  at  an  end ;  the  false  gods,  forerunners  and  followers 
of  Antichrist,  are  creeping  forth  from  under  the  seal  of  the 
angel  back  into  the  world  for  the  temptation  of  men  !  Woe 
to  those  who  live  on  the  earth  or  on  the  sea ! — Of  thin,  yellow, 
Brabant  cloth,  1 7  bracelet^  4  fingers,  9  nails  ! ' 

'How  think  you,  then,  Antonio?'  asked  Giovanni,  with 
alarmed  and  eager  interest ;  'all  these  signs  bear  witness * 

*  Ay,  ay !  You  see,  the  hour  has  come.  Not  alone  are 
they  digging  up  the  old  gods,  but  they  are  creating  new  ones 
in  their  likeness.  Painters  and  sculptors  alike  weary  them- 
selves in  the  service  of  Moloch — that  is,  the  Devil.  They 
turn  the  House  of  God  into  the  temple  of  Satan ;  in  the 
sacred  pictures,  under  the  guise  of  martyrs  and  saints,  they 
paint  the  gods  of  uncleanness,  and  to  these  the  people  pray ; 
in  place  of  John  the  Baptist  they  give  us  Bacchus ;  for  the 
holy  Mother  of  God  we  get  the  shameless  Venus.  The 
pictures  should  be  burned  with  fire,  and  their  ashes  strewn 
upon  the  wind  ! ' 

Suppressed  fire  flashed  from  the  dull,  dark  eyes  of  the 
zealous  clerk;  and  Giovanni,  not  daring  a  retort,  held  his 
peace.  His  delicate,  childlike  eyebrows  contracted  under 
the  stress  of  thought.  At  last,  however,  he  said  :  '  Antonio, 
they  tell  me  Messer  Leonardo,  your  kinsman,  takes  scholars 
into  his  painting-room.     I  have  long  wished ' 

Antonio  frowned  and  interrupted  him.  '  If  you  would  lose 
your  soul,  Giovanni,  then  go  to  Messer  Leonardo ! ' 

'What?     Why?' 

1  Braccio,  a  measure  considerably  less  than  a  metre,  still  in  use  in  Florence. 


io  THE  FORERUNNER 

'Though  he  be  my  near  kinsman,  and  though  he  have 
lived  twenty  years  longer  than  I,  nevertheless  in  the  Scripture 
it  is  written :  "  From  an  heretic,  after  the  first  and  second 
admonition,  turn  thou  away."  Leonardo  is  a  heretic  and  an 
infidel.  His  mind  is  darkened  by  Satanic  pride;  he  seeks 
to  penetrate  into  the  mysteries  of  nature  by  steeping  himself 
in  mathematics  and  black  magic*  Then,  raising  his  eyes 
to  heaven,  he  repeated  from  Savonarola's  latest  discourse : 
'"The  wisdom  of  this  world  is  foolishness  with  God.  We 
know  them,  these  learned  men;  they  all  go  to  the  house  of 
the  devil." 

'And  have  you  heard,  Antonio,'  persisted  Giovanni,  still 
shyly,  '  that  Messer  Leonardo  is  here  in  Florence  ?  He  has 
even  now  arrived  from  Milan.' 

'  For  what  purpose?' 

'  The  duke  has  sent  him  to  buy,  if  possible,  pictures  from 
the  galleries  of  the  late  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent.' 

'  Well,  if  he  be  here,  then  here  he  is.  'Tis  of  no  moment 
to  me,'  said  Antonio,  turning  away;  and  he  proceeded  to 
measure  a  length  of  green  cloth  with  his  canna. 

From  the  church,  bells  rang  out  the  call  to  vespers,  and 
Dolfo  stretched  himself  and  clapped-to  the  ledger  with  an 
air  of  relief;  for  this  day  work  was  over,  and  the  shops  and 
the  warehouses  were  shutting. 

Giovanni  stepped  into  the  street.  A  narrow  strip  of  grey 
sky,  faintly  tinged  with  the  roseate  of  evening,  showed 
between  the  humid  roofs :  a  fine  rain  fell  through  the 
windless  air.  Suddenly  from  a  window  in  a  neighbouring 
alley  was  wafted  a  song: — 

1  O  vaghe  montanine  pastorelle 
Donde  venite  si  leggiadre  e  belle  ? ' 

(O  shepherd -girls  so  fair, 
Say  from  what  mountain  air 
Light-footed  have  ye  strayed?) 

The  voice  was  resonant  and  young  :  from  the  measured  beat 
of  the  treadle  Giovanni  guessed  at  a  loom,  and  at  a  girl 
singing  as  she  threw  the  shuttle.  He  listened  with  vague 
enjoyment,  and  remembered  that  the  spring  had  come,  and 
felt  his  heart  swelling  with  strange  emotions  of  tenderness 
and  melancholy. 

'  Nanna !  Nanna !  Where  hast  thou  got  to,  thou  little 
devil?    What  hath  happened  to  thine  ears?     Haste  thee! 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  11 

The  vermicelli  grows  cold.'  After  which  there  was  a  swift 
clapping  of  wooden  pattens  across  the  floor,  and  then  silence. 
Giovanni  stood  long,  his  eyes  on  the  window,  the  gay 
song  echoing  in  his  ears  like  the  far-off  beatings  of  some 
shepherd's  pipe — 

1  O  vaghe  montanine  pastorelle ' 

Then  sighing  softly  to  himself  he  entered  the  house  of  the 
Master  of  the  Calimala,  and  mounting  the  winding  stair,  with 
its  worm-eaten  banisters,  he  presented  himself  in  the  great 
room,  which  served  as  a  library,  and  in  which,  bending  over 
a  desk,  was  Giorgio  Merula,  the  historiographer  of  the  Court 
of  the  Duke  of  Milan. 

Ill 

Merula  had  come  to  Florence  on  a  mission  from  his  lord, 
to  purchase  rare  books  from  the  library  of  the  great  Lorenzo. 
He  was  lodged  in  the  house  of  Buonaccorsi,  as  great  an 
enthusiast  as  himself  for  the  learning  and  the  arts  of  the 
ancients.  Journeying  to  Florence  he  had  fallen  into  an 
acquaintance  with  Giovanni  Boltraffio  at  a  road-side  inn,  and 
under  the  pretext  that  he  required  an  amanuensis,  he  had 
brought  him  in  his  company  to  Messer  Cipriano's  house. 

When  Boltraffio  entered,  Merula  was  in  the  act  of  examining 
with  reverent  attention  a  much-worn  volume,  which  had  the 
appearance  of  a  Missal  or  a  Psaltery.  He  gingerly  passed  a 
damp  sponge  over  the  parchment — parchment  of  the  most 
delicate  kind,  made  from  the  skin  of  a  still-born  lamb ;  here 
and  there  he  rubbed  it  with  pumice-stone,  smoothed  it  with 
the  blade  of  a  knife  and  with  a  polisher  j  then  holding  it  up 
to  the  light,  studied  it  afresh. 

*  Dainty  darlings  ! '  he  murmured,  sucking  in  his  lips  with 
delight ;  '  come  forth  to  the  light  of  heaven  !  Ah,  how  many 
and  how  beautiful  ye  are ! ' 

He  raised  his  bald  head  from  his  work  and  showed  a 
bloated,  red-nosed  countenance,  mobile  brows,  and  eyes 
small  and  colourless,  but  brimming  with  vivacity ;  poured 
wine  into  a  cup  beside  him  on  the  window-sill,  drank  it, 
coughed,  and  was  returning  to  his  work  when  he  caught  sight 
of  Giovanni. 

'  Ha,  little  monk  ! '  he  called  out  merrily.  ■  You  have  been 
lacking  to  me :  "  Where  can  my  little  monk  be  gone  ?  "  quoth 


12  THE  FORERUNNER 

I.  "  Fallen  in  love,  of  a  surety,  with  one  of  the  fair  maids  of 
Florence."  Fair  enough,  I  warrant  you,  and  falling  in  love 
is  no  sin.  Nor  have  I  been  wasting  my  time  neither.  You 
never  have  seen  such  a  pretty  piece  in  your  life.  Will  you 
have  me  show  her  to  you  ?  Not  I ;  for  you  '11  be  whispering 
the  thing  to  the  four  winds  !  And  to  think  I  bought  her  for 
a  song  from  a  Hebrew  rag-vendor  !  Well,  well,  I  suppose  I 
must  show  you;  you  only!'  And  beckoning  mysteriously 
he  whispered,  '  Come  here  with  you — closer — here  !  * 

And  he  pointed  to  a  page  closely  covered  with  the  angular 
characters  of  ecclesiastical  writing:  praises  of  the  Virgin, 
psalms,  prayers,  interspersed  with  huge  musical  notation. 
Then  he  opened  the  book  at  another  page,-  and  raised  it  to 
the  light  on  a  level  with  Giovanni's  eyes ;  the  boy  noticed 
that  where  Merula  had  scraped  away  the  ecclesiastical 
writing  there  emerged  other  characters — barely  distinguish- 
able— not  letters,  but  the  ghosts  of  letters,  pallid,  attenuated, 
faint,  still  lingering  impressed  upon  the  parchment. 

*  See  you  ?  See  you  ? '  cried  Merula,  triumphantly ;  "  is  it 
not  a  darling?  Did  I  not  tell  you,  little  brother,  'twas  a 
pretty  piece!' 

*  But  what  is  it  ? '  asked  Giovanni,  astounded. 

*  That 's  what  I  can't  yet  tell  you.  Fragments  of  an  antique 
anthology ;  new  riches  it  may  be  of  the  Hellenic  muse.  And, 
perchance,  but  for  me  they  would  never  have  come  out  into 
God's  light — would  have  been  entombed  to  the  end  of  time 
under  antiphons  and  psalms  of  penitence ! '  And  Merula 
explained  to  his  pupil  how  some  Middle  Age,  monkish  copyist, 
wishing  to  use  the  precious  parchment,  had  expunged,  as  he 
thought,  the  old  Pagan  writing,  and  scrawled  his  pieties  over 
it.  As  the  old  man  spoke,  the  sun  filled  the  room  with  its 
slowly  dying,  evening  red ;  in  this  last  radiance  the  shade  of 
the  antique  letters,  the  ghost  of  the  ancient  writing,  showed 
itself  with  redoubled  clearness. 

'You  see!  you  see!'  cried  Merula  in  an  ecstasy,  'The 
dead  are  rising  from  their  age-long  sepulchres  !  It  is  a  hymn 
to  the  Olympian  gods  !  Already  you  can  decipher  the  first 
lines  !' 

And  translating  from  the  Greek,  he  read  : — 

'  Glory  to  the  gentle,  the  richly-crowned  Dionysus, 
Glory  to  thee,  far-darting  Phcebus,  silver-bowed,  terrible, 
God  of  the  flowing  curls,  slayer  of  the  sons  of  Niobe ' 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  13 

And  here  is  a  hymn  to  that  Venus,  of  whom  you,  little  monk, 
have  such  a  mighty  dread  : — 

'  Glory  to  thee,  golden -limbed  mother,  Aphrodite, 
Delight  of  the  gods  and  of  mortals.' 

But  here  the  verses  broke  off,  hidden  under  the  pious  over- 
writing. Giovanni  lowered  the  book,  and  at  once  the  traces 
of  the  old  Greek  letters  grew  faint  and  confused,  sinking  into 
the  yellow  smoothness  of  the  parchment.  Nothing  was  visible 
but  the  clear,  black,  greasy  characters  of  the  monkish  scribe, 
the  penitential  psalm,  and  the  huge  square  notes  for  the 
chant : — 

*  Give  ear  to  my  prayer,  O  God,  and  hide  not  thyself  from  my  suppli- 
cation. My  heart  is  sore  pained  within  me,  and  the  terrors  of  death  are 
fallen  upon  me. ' 

The  roseate  reflection  faded  away,  and  darkness  filled  the 
room.  Merula  poured  wine  from  the  earthen  pitcher,  drank, 
and  offered  it  to  his  companion. 

*  To  my  health,  boy.  Vinum  super  omnia  bonum  dili- 
gamus  !  You  refuse  ?  Well,  well !  as  you  will.  I  will  drink 
for  you.  But  what  is  ill  with  you,  little  monk?  You  are  as 
green  as  if  you  were  drowning.  Has  that  bigot  of  an  Antonio 
been  scaring  you  with  his  prophesyings  ?  Spit  on  them, 
Giovanni,  spit  on  them !  A  pox  upon  all  these  croakings 
of  ill-voiced  ravens !  Confess  now,  you  have  been  with 
Antonio  ? ' 

'Ay.' 

*  And  of  what  did  he  speak  ? ' 

1  Of  Antichrist,  and  of  Messer  Leonardo  da  Vinci.' 
'  So  I  thought !  You  have  no  speech  but  of  Leonardo ! 
Has  he  bewitched  you,  simpleton?  Hear  me  now,  lad; 
remove  that  folly  out  of  your  head,  and  content  you  as  my 
secretary.  I  will  show  you  the  world ;  teach  you  grammar, 
law ;  make  you  an  orator  and  a  court  poet.  There  's  the 
road  to  riches  and  fame.  Painting  !  what  rubbish  is  that  ? 
Seneca  called  it  a  trade — no  business  for  a  free  man.  Turn 
your  eyes  upon  the  artists ;  are  they  not  all  ignorant,  rude 
persons ' 

*  Nay,  I  have  been  told  Messer  Leonardo  is  a  great  scholar/ 
*You  tell  me  news.     Where  is  his  Latin,  pr'ythee?     He 

confounds  Cicero  and  Quintilian,  and  has  not  even  a  smack 
of  Greek  about  him.     A  scholar  you  call  him,  do  you  ?' 


14  THE  FORERUNNER 

1  But/  urged  Boltraffio,  '  he  has  made  wondrous  machines ; 
and  his  studies  of  the  phenomena  of  nature ' 

'Machines!  pf — f!  Studies  of  nature  1  How  far  is  that 
going  to  take  you  ?  In  my  Elegantia  Lingua  Latince  I  have 
culled  more  than  two  thousand  turns  of  speech ;  on  my  soul, 
new,  and  elegance  itself.  Would  you  know  how  much  it  cost 
me  ?  But  to  apply  wheels  to  machinery,  and  to  watch  the 
manner  of  the  flying  of  birds  and  the  sprouting  of  the  grass 
in  the  fields — call  you  that  learning  ?  'Tis  the  idleness,  the 
vain  toying  of  babes.' 

The  old  man  paused :  his  face  had  grown  stern.  Then 
taking  his  young  friend  by  the  arm,  he  continued  with 
gravity : — 

'  Hearken,  Giovanni ;  and  what  I  say  to  you  burn  it  deep 
into  your  mind.  Our  teachers  are  the  Greeks  and  the 
Romans ;  they  have  done  all  that  the  mind  of  man  can  do 
upon  this  earth.  For  us  there  is  nothing  left  but  to  follow  in 
their  footsteps :  is  it  not  written,  "  The  disciple  is  not  greater 
than  his  lord  ?  " '  He  lifted  his  wine,  and  looking  straight  into 
Giovanni's  eyes  with  malicious  mirth,  all  his  lines  and  wrinkles 
dissolving  in  one  broad  smile,  he  added : — 

1  O  youth  !  youth !  I  look  upon  you,  little  monk,  and  I 
envy  you.  You  are  a  bud  blowing  in  the  spring,  that  is  what 
you  are.  And  you,  simpleton,  contemn  women,  and  scorn 
wine,  and  would  make  of  yourself  a  hermit  and  a  recluse. 
For  all  that,  you  have  a  little  devil  there  in  your  heart;  oh, 
I  read  you  well  enough,  my  friend,  through  and  through  to 
your  very  soul !  Some  day  that  little  devil  will  peep  out ;  it 
is  vain  for  you  to  deny  it.  However  glum  you  may  be,  there 
are  who  will  be  merry  in  your  company.  See,  Giovanni, 
carinO)  you  're  this  parchment — penitential  psalms  outside, 
and  under  them  a  hymn  to  Aphrodite ! ' 

1  Messer  Giorgio,'  said  Giovanni,  '  it  grows  dark ;  were  it 
not  well  I  brought  the  lights  ?  • 

1  Why  this  haste,  lad  ?  It  pleases  me  to  converse  in  the 
twilight,  and  to  recall  my  lost  youth.'  His  tongue  had  grown 
stammering  and  his  phrases  less  perspicuous.  '  I  know,'  he 
muttered,  '  that  you  are  gazing  at  me,  and  thinking,  "  He  is 
drunk,  the  old  rascal,  and  talking  his  folly."  Yet  I  have  that 
here  within  me,'  and  he  tapped  his  bald  forehead  com- 
placently and  nodded.  '  I  speak  not  for  boasting,'  he  went 
on,  *  but  inquire  of  the  scholars  whether  any  have  ever  sur- 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  15 

passed  Merula  in  the  elegance  of  his  Latin.  Who  was  it  who 
discovered  Martial?  Who  read  the  famed  inscription  on  the 
gate  of  Tibur?  That  meant  climbing  till  your  head  reeled, 
stones  breaking  from  under  your  feet,  as  you  clung  to  a  bunch 
of  twigs  and  thought  to  fall  headlong.  Whole  days  under 
the  blazing  sun,  just  to  read  and  to  copy  those  few  ancient 
letters  !  And  the  peasant  maids  as  they  passed  would  cry  to 
each  other,  "  See  yon  fat  quail  up  there  seeking  a  nesting 
place!"  And  I  would  answer  them  with  some  gallantry, 
and  when  they  had  passed  by  would  set  me  to  my  work 
again.  Once,  concealed  under  the  ivy  and  the  thorns,  where 
the  stones  had  fallen  in  ruin,  I  found  these  two  sole  words, 
"Gloria  Rotnanorum J '" '*  And  as  if  listening  to  the  echo 
of  majestic  utterance  too  long  silenced,  Merula  repeated  in 
low,  awestruck  tones,  '  "  Gloria  Rotnanorum  /" ' — Glory  of  the 
Romans ! ' 

But  then,  with  an  uncertain  wave  of  the  hand,  he  added, 
'By  my  troth  !  'tis  something  to  remember,  even  though  the 
past  returns  no  more.'  And  raising  his  glass,  he  sang  hoarsely 
the  students'  drinking-song  : — 

*  Not  a  single  jot  miss  I, 
Not  a  single  drop,  Sir  ! 
All  my  life  to  the  cask  I  go, 
And  by  the  cask  I  '11  stop,  Sir. 
Wine  I  love  and  singing  to  't, 
And  the  Latin  Graces  ; 
If  I  drink  my  throat '11  do  't 
Better  than  Horatius. 
Vintage  spins  our  brains  about 
Dum  vinum  potamus  ; 
Lads,  to  Bacchus  let  us  shout, 
Te  Deum  laudamus  \  * 

He  fell  a-coughing  and  was  unable  to  finish.  By  this  time 
it  was  dark,  and  Giovanni  could  barely  see  his  master's  face. 
Outside  it  was  still  raining,  and  the  swollen  and  frequent  drops 
plashed  noisily  in  the  streaming  courtyard  below. 

'Hear  me,  little  monk,'  stuttered  Merula;  'what  was  it  I 
was  saying?  My  wife  is  a  handsome  woman — no — that 
wasn't  it.  Have  patience.  Yes,  I  have  it  now.  You  know 
the  line :  "  Tu  regere  imperio  populos,  Romane,  memento" 
Ah !  they  were  the  giants,  the  lords  of  the  universe ! ' 
Here  his  voice  shook,  and  Giovanni  saw  tears  in  his  eyes. 
'I  repeat,  giants.     While  to-day— it  is  a  scandal  to  speak  it! 


16  THE  FORERUNNER 

but  let  us  take  this  duke  of  ours,  Ludovico  II  Moro,  Duke  of 
Milan.  True  it  is  I  am  paid  by  him,  am  writing  his  history, 
am  a  sort  of  Titus  Livius,  and  am  comparing  the  cowardly 
hare,  the  man  of  straw,  to  Pompey  and  to  Caesar;  but  in  my 
soul,  Giovanni,  in  my  soul ' —  He  stopped,  and  glanced  at 
the  door  with  the  suspiciousness  of  a  practised  courtier; 
then  bending  closer  to  his  companion,  he  whispered,  'In  the 
soul  of  old  Merula  the  love  of  liberty  is  not  dead,  and  will 
never  die.  Repeat  it  not,  but  I  tell  you  our  times  are  evil, 
evil  as  never  before.  And  the  men!  it  sickens  me  to  see 
them ;  rotten  !  mere  clods  of  earth  !  And  they  curl  up 
their  noses,  and  think  themselves  as  the  ancients.  I  would 
fain  know  what  they  are  so  proud  of.  Hearken ;  an 
acquaintance  of  mine  writes  to  me  from  Greece,  that  not 
many  weeks  ago  in  the  island  of  Chios,  the  convent  washer- 
women as  they  were  beating  the  linen  at  dawn,  found  on  the 
seashore — a  god  !  a  real  ancient  god  ;  a  Triton  with  his  fishy- 
tail,  and  fins,  and  scales.  The  silly  fools  were  affrighted  and 
fled,  thinking  it  the  Devil.  But  when  they  saw  him  weak 
and  old,  and  it  would  seem  sick,  lying  on  his  belly  on  the 
sand,  and  warming  his  green  scales  in  the  sun,  his  hair  grey, 
and  his  eyes  dim  as  those  of  a  sucking  babe,  then  they  took 
courage,  the  cowardly  wretches !  and  came  around  him 
showering  him  with  Christian  prayers,  and  beat  him  to  death 
like  a  dog ;  he,  the  ancient  deity,  last  of  the  mighty  gods  of 
the  ocean  ;  it  might  be  a  scion  of  Poseidon  himself!' 

And  the  old  man  shook  his  head  sorrowfully,  and  maudlin 
tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks  as  he  thought  of  the  sea- 
monster  done  to  death  by  Christian  laundresses.  A  servant 
entered  bearing  a  candle,  and  closed  the  shutters ;  with  the 
darkness  the  pagan  phantoms  shrank  away  and  vanished. 
The  pair  were  called  to  supper,  but  Merula  was  so  heavy 
with  wine  that  they  had  to  carry  him  to  bed. 

It  was  long  before  Boltrafno  slept,  and  as  he  listened  to 
the  peaceful  snores  of  Messer  Giorgio,  he  thought,  as  usual, 
of  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

IV. 

Giovanni  had  been  sent  to  Florence  by  his  uncle,  Oswald 
Ingrim,  the  painter  on  glass  (magisUr  a  vitreis),  a  German 
from  Gratz,  and  pupil  of  Johann  Kirchheim,  the  famous  Stras- 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  17 

burg  master.  He  was  to  buy  certain  transparent  and  brilliant 
pigments  which  could  be  obtained  only  in  the  Tuscan  city, 
and  were  required  by  Ingrim  for  his  work  in  Milan  Cathedral. 
The  boy  was  the  natural  son  of  Reinold  the  lapidary, 
Oswald's  brother,  and  had  got  the  name  of  Boltraffio  from 
his  Lombard  mother,  whom  Oswald  asserted  to  be  a  shame- 
less woman  and  the  cause  of  his  brother's  ruin.  Brought  up 
by  his  crabbed  uncle,  Giovanni  was  a  lonely  and  frightened 
child,  reared  on  tales  of  unclean  powers,  demons,  hags,  sor- 
cerers, and  were-wolves.  His  special  horror  was  a  certain 
demon  which,  according  to  the  North  Italian  tradition, 
appeared  under  the  form  of  a  woman,  and  was  called  the 
*  White  She-devil,'  or  the  'Mother  of  the  Snowy  Eyebrow.' 
Yet  even  in  his  earliest  infancy,  when  his  uncle  would  silence 
his  sobs  with  threats  of  the  Diavolessa  Irianca,  the  child  felt  a 
curiosity  mingling  with  his  terror,  a  shrinking  wish  that  some 
day  he  might  meet  the  white  one  face  to  face,  and  behold  her 
countenance  with  his  own  eyes. 

When  the  boy  was  grown,  Ingrim  handed  him  over  as 
pupil  to  Fra  Benedetto  the  sacred  painter.  This  was  a 
kind  and  simple-minded  old  man,  who  taught  that  the  first 
step  in  beginning  a  picture  was  to  invoke  God  Omnipotent 
and  the  beloved  Virgin,  St.  Luke  the  first  Christian  painter, 
and  all  the  saints  in  Paradise;  the  second  to  put  on  the 
cloak  of  charity,  fear,  patience,  and  obedience ;  the  last,  to 
temper  his  colours  with  yelk  of  egg,  and  the  juice  from 
young  fig-branches  mixed  with  wine,  and  to  prepare  his 
panels  of  old  beechwood  by  rubbing  them  with  the  ashes 
of  bones — if  possible  the  wing  bones  of  capons.  His  pre- 
cepts were  endless  and  minute :  Giovanni  soon  learned  the 
contemptuous  phrase  with  which  he  dismissed  the  colour 
known  as  Dragon's  Blood.  'Let  it  lie;  'twill  bring  you  no 
credit,'  and  Giovanni  surmised  that  the  same  words  had 
been  said  by  Fra  Benedetto's  teacher,  and  by  the  teacher  of 
his  teacher  before  him.  Constant  was  the  smile  of  quiet 
pride  with  which  Benedetto  initiated  his  pupil  into  the 
secrets  of  his  art.  For  instance,  in  the  painting  of  youthful 
faces  the  eggs  of  urban  hens  were  essential :  the  rural  hen 
laying  an  egg  with  a  ruddy  yelk  only  suited  for  the  delineation 
of  countenances  wrinkled  and  swarthy.  Notwithstanding 
these  subtleties,  Fra  Benedetto  was  a  painter  simple  and 
innocent  as  a  child :  he  prepared  himself  for  work  by  fast 
B 


18  THE  FORERUNNER 

and  vigil  j  each  time  he  depicted  the  Crucifixion  his  face  was 
bathed  in  tears. 

Giovanni  loved  his  master,  and  had  considered  him  the 
first  of  painters;  this  opinion  had  however  been  shaken  of 
late.  Fra  Benedetto,  expounding  his  one  anatomical  rule, 
viz.,  that  the  length  of  a  man's  body  must  be  reckoned  at 
eight  faces  and  two-thirds,  was  used  to  add  in  the  same  per- 
functory tone  in  which  he  spoke  of  Dragon's  Blood :  '  As  for 
the  bodies  of  women,  we  will  not  allude  to  them,  for  they 
have  no  proportions.'  This  dogma  was  as  much  an  article 
of  faith  with  him  as  these  others:  that  all  fish  are  dark- 
coloured  above  and  bright  below;  or  that  men's  ribs  are 
fewer  than  women's  by  reason  of  God's  method  in  the 
creation  of  Eve.  For  an  allegorical  representation  of  the 
elements,  he  drew  a  mole  to  signify  earth ;  a  fish,  water ;  a 
salamander,  fire ;  a  chameleon,  air ;  but,  supposing  the  word 
'chameleon'  an  augmentative  of  'camel,'  the  simple  monk 
showed  the  fluid  element  as  a  colossal  camel,  its  jaws  gaping 
alarmingly  in  its  efforts  to  breathe.  Nor  were  his  remaining 
notions  more  accurate.  Doubts  therefore  crept  into 
Giovanni's  mind,  and  a  mutinous  spirit,  which  Fra  Bene- 
detto called  '  the  devil  of  worldly  knowledge.'  When, 
shortly  before  his  journey  to  Florence,  the  lad  chanced  to 
see  certain  drawings  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci's,  his  doubts  grew 
with  such  rapidity  that  he  was  no  longer  able  to  stifle  them. 

To-night,  here  in  the  Tuscan  city,  as  he  lay  beside  the 
peacefully-snoring  Messer  Giorgio,  he  turned  all  this  over  in 
his  mind  for  the  thousandth  time ;  but  the  more  he  thought 
the  more  puzzled  he  became.  Then  he  resolved  to  invoke 
celestial  aid,  and  full  of  hope,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  impene- 
trable darkness  of  night,  he  prayed  thus : — 

'  Lord,  help  me  and  forsake  me  not.  If  Messer  Leonardo 
be  truly  a  godless  man,  in  whose  skill  lieth  temptation  and 
sin,  rid  me  of  the  thought  of  him ;  purge  my  mind  of  tke 
memory  of  his  drawings,  and  deliver  me  from  evil.  But  if, 
while  pleasing  Thee  and  glorifying  Thy  name  in  the  noble 
art  of  painting,  it  be  yet  possible  to  know  all  which  is 
hidden  from  Fra  Benedetto,  and  which  I  am  so  fain  to 
learn  (such  as  anatomy,  perspective,  and  the  laws  of  light 
and  shade),  then,  O  God,  make  strong  my  will,  and  lighten 
my  eyes,  that  I  may  doubt  no  more ;  and  permit  that  Messer 
Leonardo   may  receive  me  into  his  studio,  and   that   Fra 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  19 

Benedetto  may  grant  me  his  pardon,  and  may  know  that  I 
am  in  nowise  guilty  in  Thy  sight.' 

After  this  fervent  prayer,  Giovanni  felt  a  balsam  descend 
upon  his  heart :  little  by  little  confusion  came  upon  his 
thoughts  ;  he  fancied  himself  back  with  his  uncle,  the  glass- 
worker,  and  listening  to  the  hissing  of  the  glass  as  the  white- 
hot  steel  was  plunged  into  it.  He  saw  the  twisting  of  the 
leaden  ribbons,  which  form  the  frames  for  the  several  pieces 
of  coloured  glass  :  he  heard  the  voice  of  Oswald  commanding 
more  notches  at  the  edge  of  the  lead  for  the  fixing  of  the 
glass ;  then  all  vanished :  he  rolled  to  his  other  side  and 
slept. 

And  a  vision  came  to  him,  which  in  after  years  he  often 
recalled  to  mind.  For  he  saw  himself  standing  in  the  gloom 
of  a  vast  cathedral,  and  before  a  many-coloured,  Gothic  win- 
dow. On  it  was  depicted  the  vintage  of  that  mystic  vine 
whereof  the  Saviour  had  said,  'My  Father  is  the  husbandman. ' 
The  naked  body  of  the  Crucified  lay  in  the  winepress,  blood 
flowing  from  His  wounds.  Popes,  cardinals,  emperors  were 
receiving  it  into  vats  and  casks.  The  Apostles  were  throwing 
in  grapes;  St.  Peter  was  treading  them.  In  the  background, 
prophets  and  patriarchs  were  trenching  the  vineyard  and 
pruning  the  vines.  A  waggon  was  passing,  drawn  by  the 
lion,  the  bull,  and  the  eagle,  driven  by  St.  Matthew. 

Such  painted  allegories  Giovanni  had  seen  in  his  uncle's 
workshop ;  nowhere  such  colours,  dark,  yet  with  the  gleam  of 
jewels.  Chiefly  he  marvelled  at  the  crimson  of  the  Saviour's 
blood.  From  the  depths  of  the  cathedral  came  the  faint 
echoing  of  his  favourite  chant : — 

f  O  fior  di  castitate, 
Odorifero  giglio 
Con  gran  suavitate 
Sei  di  color  vermiglio.' 

But  the  song  died  away,  the  window  glowed  no  longer,  and 
the  harsh  voice  of  Antonio  da  Vinci  shouted  in  his  ear : — 

'  Flee  !     Flee  for  your  life !     She  cometh  ! ' 

Nor  did  he  need  to  inquire  who,  for  he  knew  the  Diavo- 
lessa  bianca  was  behind  him.  A  waft  of  icy  air;  and  then 
a  heavy  hand,  not  human,  had  taken  hold  at  his  throat, 
and'  was  choking  him.  He  seemed  to  be  dying,  cried  out, 
and  awoke — to  see  Messer  Giorgio  standing  by  his  side  and 
dragging  away  the  coverlet. 


20  THE  FORERUNNER 

'Eh!  pull  yourself  from  your  bed  or  they  will  depart 
without  us.  Arise !  the  hour  is  already  past,'  cried  the 
antiquarian. 

*  What !     Whither  ? '  stammered  Giovanni,  half-asleep. 

'Whither?  Can  you  forget?  To  the  villa  of  San 
Gervaso,  to  dig  at  the  Hill  of  the  Mill.' 

1 1  go  not  thither.' 

'You  go  not?  What  have  I  waked  you  for ?  Why  have  I 
bidden  them  saddle  the  black  mule  that  the  two  of  us  may 
travel  at  ease?  A  truce  to  this  stubbornness.  Get  up! 
Get  up  !  Nay,  then,  a  word  in  your  ear,  Giovannino :  Messer 
Leonardo  will  be  there.' 

Giovanni  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  without  another  word 
threw  on  his  clothes. 

Presently  they  were  in  the  courtyard,  where  all  was  ready 
for  the  start.  Grillo  was  running  hither  and  thither  advis- 
ing and  directing.  At  last  they  set  out.  Other  friends  of 
Cipriano's,  and  among  them  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  were  to 
meet  them  later,  by  another  path  to  San  Gervaso. 


The  rain  was  over,  and  the  north  wind  had  banished  the 
clouds.  Stars  scintillated  in  the  moonless  heaven,  like 
little  wind-blown  lamps.  Resin-torches  flared  and  fluttered, 
scattering  sparks.  The  horsemen  took  their  way  by  the  Via 
Ricasoli,  past  San  Marco  and  the  serrated  gate  of  San  Gallo. 
Here  the  sentinels  argued  and  swore,  but  were  too  sleepy  to 
perceive  what  was  on  foot ;  and  presently  egress  was  secured 
by  a  good  bribe.  Outside  the  gate,  the  road  followed  the 
deep  and  narrow  valley  of  the  Mugnone.  After  passing 
several  meagre  villages,  where  the  streets  were  even  narrower 
than  those  in  Florence,  and  the  rough  stone  houses  were  as 
tall  as  fortresses,  the  party  emerged  into  an  olive-grove 
owned  by  the  contadini  of  San  Gervaso.  Dismounting  at  the 
junction  of  two  roads,  they  walked  to  the  Hill  of  the  Mill, 
hard  by  Messer  Cipriano's  vineyard.  Here  men  awaited  them 
with  spades  and  mattocks ;  and  here,  behind  the  hill,  beyond 
the  marsh  known  as  the  Humid  Hollow,  the  villa  walls 
showed  shadowy  white  through  the  darkness  of  the  trees. 
Tall  cypresses  stood  up   black  from    the   summit   of  the 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  21 

hill,  and  down  below  on  the  Mugnone  was  the  name-giving 
watermill. 

Grillo  signified  where,  to  his  thinking,  they  ought  to  dig ; 
Merula  suggested  another  place  ;  and  Strocco,  the  gardener, 
swore  they  must  go  lower  down,  much  nearer  to  the  Humid 
Hollow,  because  the  devils  always  hide  themselves  nearest 
to  the  slough.  Cipriano,  however,  bade  dig  where  Grillo 
advised ;  the  spades  grated,  and  soon  there  was  an  odour  of 
new-dug  earth.  Giovanni  shuddered,  for  a  bat  had  brushed 
his  face  with  its  weird  pinions;  but  Merula  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  crying,  '  Fear  nothing,  little  monk  !  we  shall  find  no 
devil  here.  This  Grillo  is  an  ass.  Thank  heaven,  it 's  not 
the  sort  of  excavation  I  'm  used  to.  At  Rome,  in  the  45th 
Olympiad' (Merula  scorned  the  Christian  calendar),  'in  the 
days  of  Pope  Innocent  vin.,  diggers  from  Lombardy,  who 
were  working  on  the  Appian  Way  close  to  the  tomb  of 
Csecilia  Metella,  found  an  ancient  sarcophagus  with  the 
inscription,  "  Julia,  daughter  of  Claudius,"  and  in  it  a  body 
clothed  in  wax — a  fair  maid  of  fifteen,  with  the  semblance  of 
one  asleep.  You  would  have  sworn  she  breathed  :  the  flush 
of  life  was  on  her  cheek.  Multitudes  flocked  to  the  tomb 
and  refused  to  leave  it ;  for  such  was  Julia's  beauty,  as  to  be 
incredible  to  those  who  had  not  beheld  it.  But  it  ill-suited 
the  Pope  that  his  children  should  adore  a  dead  heathen,  and 
he  caused  the  body  to  be  interred  secretly  under  the  Pincian 
Hill.  Do  you  take  me,  lad?  That  was  something  like 
excavating  ! ' 

And  Merula  contemptuously  kicked  the  clods  which  the 
diggers  were  throwing  up  at  his  feet.  Suddenly  all  the 
onlookers  started,  for  a  jarring  sound  had  come  from  one  of 
the  spades. 

1  Bones  ! '  said  the  gardener ;  '  the  ancient  burying-place  was 
here.' 

At  this  moment  the  long-drawn  howl  of  a  dog  was  heard 
from  San  Gervaso,  and  Giovanni  thought,  'We  are  profan- 
ing a  grave.     May  it  prove  nothing  worse  ! ' 

'  Bones  of  a  horse ! '  cried  Strocco  contemptuously,  and 
dragged  out  a  mouldered,  long-shaped  skull. 

*  Grillo,'  said  Messer  Cipriano  anxiously,  'were  it  not 
better  we  tried  elsewhere  ?  ' 

'  Did  I  not  say  so  ?'  cried  Merula  ;  and  taking  two  of  the 
workmen  with  him  he  began  new  operations  at  the  base  of 


22  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  hill.  Strocco  also  had  detached  a  party  to  dig  in  the 
Humid  Hollow. 

Presently  excited  shouts  were  heard  from  Messer  Giorgio. 

1  Hither  all  ye  simpletons !  Did  not  I  know  where  ye 
should  dig  ? ' 

All  ran  to  his  side;  but  again  the  treasure  proved  naught; 
the  great  man's  marble  fragment  was  only  an  ordinary  stone. 
They  had  all  deserted  Gnllo,  who,  openly  humiliated,  was 
diguing  alone  by  the  light  of  a  broken  lantern. 

The  wind  had  fallen  and  the  air  grew  warmer :  out  of  the 
Humid  Hollow  exhaled  a  mist.  The  breath  of  primroses 
and  violets  mingled  with  the  dankness  of  stagnant  water. 
Dawn  was  in  the  sky,  and  the  cocks  crowed  for  the  second 
time,  signal  of  the  departing  of  night. 

Suddenly  from  the  depths  of  the  pit  in  which  Grillo  was 
concealed  there  arose  a  despairing  yell. 

*  Help  !  Help !  I  am  falling  !  The  ground  has  given 
way ! ' 

His  lantern  was  extinguished,  and  at  first  nothing  could  be 
seen.  He  was  heard  struggling  and  panting,  groaning  and 
moaning.  Lights  were  fetched,  and  disclosed  the  roof  of  a 
subterranean  vault  broken  through  by  Grillo's  weight.  Two 
lads  crept  into  the  hole. 

'  Eh,  Grillo  !  Where  are  you  ?  Give  us  your  hand  !  or  are 
you  buried  alive,  poor  fool  ? ' 

But  Grillo  seemed  to  have  lost  his  voice.  Heedless  of  a 
sprained  arm,  he  dragged  himself  along,  kicking  and  strug- 
gling most  strangely.     At  last  he  burst  into  an  ecstasy : — 

'An  idol!  An  idol!  Hasten,  Messer  Cipriano  !  'tis  a 
magnificent  idol ! ' 

1  Idiot,'  said  Strocco,  ■  you  have  got  the  head  of  another 
horse.' 

'  I  tell  you,  No  !  There  is  but  a  hand  missing.  The  rest 
is  perfect — feet,  head,  shoulders  ! '  shouted  Grillo  beside 
himself. 

Then  the  labourers  descended  into  the  pit,  carefully  turn- 
ing over  the  brickwork  ruins.  Giovanni,  stretched  on  the 
ground,  looked  down  into  the  vault,  from  which  came  the 
chill  of  a  grave,  and  the  mouldy  breath  of  long-covered 
damp. 

Messer  Cipriano  bade  the  men  stand  aside,  and  Giovanni 
could  see  in  the  profundity  between  the  walls  of  ancient  red 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  23 

brick,  a  white  and  naked  body  which  lay  like  a  corpse  upon 
a  bier,  yet  in  the  flaring  of  the  torchlight  seemed  rosy  and 
warm  with  life. 

1  Venus  ! '  cried  Messer  Giorgio  :  *  As  I  live,  the  Venus  of 
Praxiteles !  I  cry  you  honour,  friend  Cipriano  !  Not  the 
dukedoms  of  Milan  or  Genoa  could  bring  you  greater 
felicity ! ' 

As  for  Grillo,  they  dug  him  out ;  and  though  his  face  was 
clotted  with  blood,  and  his  arm  had  swelled  into  uselessness, 
in  his  old  eyes  shone  the  pride  of  a  conqueror. 

'  Grillo  !  friend  !  beloved  !  benefactor  !  And  I  scorned 
you  for  a  fool :  and  you — you  are  the  cleverest  of  men ! ' 
cried  Messer  Giorgio,  and  falling  into  his  arms  he  kissed  him 
with  deep  emotion. 

'Once/  he  continued  garrulously,  'Filippo  Brunelleschi 
found  a  Hermes  in  just  such  a  vault  under  his  own  house. 
Doubtless  the  pagans,  knowing  the  value  of  these  statues,  hid 
them  from  the  fury  of  the  Christians,  who  were  exterminating 
the  old  worship/ 

Grillo  listened,  smiling  beatifically,  inattentive  to  the  pipe 
of  the  shepherd  and  the  bleating  of  sheep.  He  saw  not 
that  the  sky  shone  now  with  a  white  and  watery  brilliance, 
nor  knew  that  from  Florence  the  belfries  were  exchanging 
their  morning  salutation. 

1  Gently  !  gently  !  To  the  right  there !  So  !  Keep  it  out 
from  the  wall ! '  cried  Messer  Cipriano.  ■  Five  silver  pieces 
to  each,  if  you  can  get  it  out  without  breakage.' 

By  this  time  the  stars  had  all  disappeared  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  orb  of  Venus,  which  still  sparkled  like  a  diamond 
in  the  glow  of  day.  And  slowly,  slowly,  with  her  ineffable 
smile,  the  goddess  herself  arose — as  once  she  had  risen  from 
the  foam  of  the  sea,  so  now  she  ascended  from  her  millennial 
tomb  in  the  darkness  of  the  earth  : — 

1  Glory  to  thee,  golden-limbed  Aphrodite, 
Delight  of  the  gods  and  of  mortals  .  .  .' 

declaimed  Merula. 

But  Giovanni  saw  her  face  blanched  in  the  illumination  of 
the  white  sunlight ;  and  himself  paling  with  terror,  the  boy 
murmured,  l  La  Diavolessa  bianca  !  ' 

He  rose  up  and  would  have  fled;  but  wonder  overcame 
his  fear.     Not  though  he  had  known  himself  guilty  of  the 


24  THE  FORERUNNER 

mortal  sin  which  is  punished  with  eternal  fire,  could  he 
have  torn  his  gaze  from  that  chaste  and  naked  body,  from 
that  countenance  flaming  with  the  effulgence  of  beauty. 
Never  in  the  days  when  Aphrodite  was  queen  of  the  world 
had  any  worshipped  her  with  devouter  trembling. 

VI 

Suddenly  from  the  little  church  of  San  Gervaso  the  bells 
rang  out,  and  the  whole  company  turned  and  involuntarily 
paused  in  their  work,  for  in  the  morning  stillness  the  sound 
seemed  irate  and  menacing. 

'  Lord  have  mercy  on  our  souls  ! '  murmured  Grillo,  putting 
his  hand  to  his  head  with  a  despairing  gesture.  'Here  is 
Don  Faustino,  and  a  multitude  with  him  !  They  have  seen 
us  !  Look  how  they  beat  their  hands  and  beckon.  See, 
they  rush  upon  us  !     I  am  a  lost  man  ! ' 

At  this  moment  arrived  those  friends  of  Messer  Cipriano's, 
who  had  intended  to  have  been  present  for  the  excavation,  but 
who  had  lost  their  way.  Boltraffio  threw  a  glance  at  them,  and, 
absorbed  though  he  still  was  in  the  new-found  goddess,  his 
attention  was  caught  on  the  instant  by  one  of  the  new-comers. 
This  personage  was  already  inspecting  the  Venus,  with  a  cold, 
imperturbable  composure,  so  different  from  Giovanni's  per- 
sonal agitation,  that  the  lad  could  not  but  be  struck  with 
astonishment.  He  continued  to  gaze  at  the  statue,  but  his 
consciousness  now  was  entirely  for  the  man  by  his  side. 

*  Hearken ! '  said  Messer  Cipriano  after  a  few  moments' 
thought,  '  the  villa  is  not  two  paces  distant,  and  the  doors  are 
strong  enough  for  a  siege.' 

'  Yea,  verily,'  cried  Grillo ;  '  courage,  brothers,  we  shall  save 
her  ! '  He  felt  jealous  for  the  image  which  had  cost  him  so 
much,  and  directing  the  operations  himself,  he  contrived  to 
get  it  safely  transported  across  the  Humid  Hollow.  Then  the 
statue  was  borne  into  the  house ;  but  scarcely  had  it  crossed 
the  threshold,  when  on  the  hill-top  appeared  the  threatening 
figure,  inflamed  countenance  and  brandished  arms  of  Don 
Faustino. 

The  lower  part  of  the  villa  was  at  present  uninhabited,  and 
its  great  hall  was  used  as  a  storehouse  for  agricultural  imple- 
ments and  great  jars  of  olive-oil :  in  one  corner  was  a  moun- 
tain of  golden  straw.     Upon  this  straw,  a  humble,  rustic  bed, 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  25 

Aphrodite  was  delicately  laid  to  rest.  But  this  was  no 
sooner  accomplished  and  the  doors  barred  than  the  latter 
were  assailed  by  blows,  by  shouts,  and  by  curses  loud  and 
deep. 

1  Open  !  Open  ! '  cried  the  cracked  voice  of  Don  Faustino ; 
'in  the  name  of  the  true  and  living  God,  I  bid  you  open  ! ' 

Messer  Cipriano  mounted  the  stone  inner  staircase  and 
surveyed  the  crowd  from  a  grated  window  above  the  hall. 
Seeing  that  the  assailants  were  few,  he  entered  into  parley, 
his  face  wearing  his  customary  smile.  But  the  priest  put  his 
fingers  in  his  ears,  and  vociferously  demanded  the  idol — so 
he  named  it — which  had  been  dug  out  of  the  ground. 

The  Master  of  the  Calimala  now  had  recourse  to  a  ruse  de 
guerre. 

'  Beware,'  he  said  calmly ;  '  I  have  summoned  the  captain 
of  the  town  guard,  and  in  two  hours  the  horsemen  will  be  on 
you.     I  allow  none  to  enter  my  house  by  force.' 

1  Break  down  the  door,'  cried  the  priest.  '  God  is  with  us. 
Fear  nothing!  Assault!'  And  snatching  an  axe  from  a 
gentle-faced  old  peasant  beside  him,  he  battered  upon  the 
great  door  with  all  his  strength. 

*  Don  Faustino  !  Don  Faustino  ! '  cried  the  old  man,  feebly 
restraining  the  furious  ecclesiastic,  'we  are  poor  folk,  and  we 
do  not  dig  up  money  in  our  fields.  This  will  be  our  ruin ;  they 
will  have  us  to  prison  ! ' 

The  mention  of  the  redoubtable  town  guard  had  struck 
terror  into  the  rabble ;  and  many  were  already  deserting. 

'If  it,  had  been  on  the  church-ground,  'twere  another 
matter,'  muttered  some  of  them. 

'  The  confines  established  by  law ' 

'The  law?  A  spider's  web,  set  to  catch  flies,  not  hornets. 
The  law  does  not  exist  for  great  folk.' 

'True  for  you.  And  every  man  is  master  on  his  own 
land.' 

All  this  time  Giovanni  was  gazing  at  the  rescued  Venus. 

The  sunshine  pouring  through  a  side  window  seemed 
waking  the  tender  body  to  warmth  and  softness  after  its  long 
imprisonment  in  the  gloom  and  the  chill  of  the  vault;  the 
golden  straw  surrounding  it  shone  like  an  aureole. 

Giovanni  once  more  noted  the  stranger.  He  was  on  his 
knees  beside  the  statue,  measuring  it  with  his  compasses,  his 
square,  and  a  half-circle  made  of  copper ;  on  his  face  was 


26  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  same  imperturbable  calm ;  in  his  cold,  blue  eyes  the  same 
piercing  curiosity. 

'What  is  he  doing?  Who  is  he?'  Giovanni  asked  him- 
self, almost  awestruck,  as  he  watched  the  quick,  bold  fingers 
exploring  the  limbs  of  the  goddess,  the  secrets  of  her  beauty, 
all  the  subtleties  of  the  marble,  too  delicate  for  the  apprehen- 
sion of  the  eye. 

At  the  gate  of  the  villa  the  priest  was  still  heard  yelling  at 
the  melting  crowd. 

1  Stay,  rascals  !  Sellers  of  Christ !  fearful  of  the  town  guard, 
but  careless  of  Antichrist!  Ipse  vero  Antichristus  opes 
malorum  effodiet  et  exponet,  as  said  the  great  preacher  St. 
Anselm  of  Canterbury.  Effodiet,  hear  you?  Antichrist 
shall  dig  up  the  old  idols  from  the  earth  and  again  bring 
them  forth  to  the  world. 

But  none  heeded  him. 

'  He  is  a  pestilent  fellow,  this  Don  Faustino  of  ours  ! '  said 
the  prudent  miller  shaking  his  head ;  '  his  life  hangs  by  a 
thread,  yet  see  how  he  storms.  For  my  part,  I  rejoice  they 
have  found  the  treasure.' 

'They  say  the  image  is  of  silver.' 

'Silver?  Nay,  I  saw  it  myself,  and  'tis  of  marble;  naked 
and  shameless.' 

'  Lord  forgive  us !  Are  we  to  soil  our  hands  for  such 
rubbish  as  that  ? ' 

'  Whither  art  going,  Zacchello  ? ' 

'  To  the  field ;  to  my  work.' 

'  God  go  with  you  !     And  I  '11  to  the  vineyard.' 

At  this  all  the  fury  of  the  priest  was  let  loose  on  his 
parishioners. 

'  Infidel  dogs,  abortions  of  Cain  !  would  you  abandon  your 
pastor  ?  Know  ye  not,  spawn  of  Satan,  that  did  I  not  pray 
for  you  day  and  night,  and  beat  my  breast  with  weeping  and 
fasting,  your  whole  sinful  village  would  long  ere  this  have  been 
sunk  into  the  earth  ?  But  it  is  ended  !  I  leave  you,  shaking 
off  the  dust  from  my  feet.  Cursed  be  the  land !  Cursed  the 
corn  and  the  water  and  the  flocks;  and  your  sons  and  your 
sons'  sons.  I  am  your  father,  your  shepherd  no  more.  I 
renounce  you !     Anathema  ! ' 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  27 


VII 

In  the  restored  calm  of  the  villa,  where  the  goddess  lay  on 
her  golden  bed,  Giorgio  Merula  went  up  to  the  stranger  who 
was  still  measuring. 

'You  are  studying  the  proportions  of  divinity?  said 
the  scholar  patronisingly :  '  You  would  reduce  beauty  to 
mathematics  ? ' 

The  other  raised  his  eyes  for  an  instant ;  then  silently,  as 
if  he  had  not  heard  the  question,  continued  his  work.  The 
compasses  contracted  and  expanded,  describing  geometrical 
figures;  quietly  and  firmly  the  stranger  put  the  angle  measure 
to  the  fair  lips  of  Aphrodite — lips  whose  smile  had  struck 
terror  into  Giovanni's  heart — reckoned  the  result,  and  set  it 
in  a  note-book. 

1  Pardon  my  curiosity,' insisted  Merula,  '  how  many  divisions 
are  there  ? ' 

'This  is  a  rough  measurement,'  said  the  unknown,  unwill- 
ingly; 'generally  I  divide  the  human  face  into  degrees, 
minutes,  seconds  and  thirds,  each  division  being  the  twelfth 
part  of  the  preceding  one.' 

'Say  you  so?'  cried  Merula,  'meseems  the  last  subdivision 
must  be  less  than  the  finest  hair.' 

'A  third,'  explained  the  other  still  grudgingly,  'is  4^2^  °f 
the  whole  face.' 

Merula  lifted  his  eyebrows  with  an  incredulous  smile. 
'Well,  we  live  and  learn.  I  never  thought  it  were  possible  to 
reach  such  accuracy.' 

'The  more  accurate  the  better,'  returned  his  companion. 

'Truly  it  may  be  so;  yet,  you  know,  in  Art,  in  Beauty, 
all  these  mathematical  calculations — What  artist  in  the 
glow  of  enthusiasm,  of  fiery  inspiration,  breathed  upon  by 
God ' 

'Yes,  yes,'  assented  the  unknown,  evidently  wearied; 
'none  the  less  I  am  anxious  to  know ' 

And  stooping  he  measured  the  distance  from  the  roots  of 
the  hair  to  the  chin. 

'To  know?'  thought  Giovanni.  'Can  one  know  these 
matters?     Folly!     Does  he  not  fee/?  understand?' 

Merula,  anxious  to  probe  the  other  to  the  quick,  talked 
on  of  the  ancients,  and  how  they  should  be  imitated.    The 


28  THE  FORERUNNER 

stranger  waited  till  he  had  concluded,  then  said,  smiling  into 
his  long  golden  beard  : — 

4  He  who  can  drink  from  the  fountain  will  not  drink  from 
the  cup.' 

*  By  your  leave ! '  shouted  the  scholar,  '  if  you  call  the 
ancients  a  cup,  whom  do  you  call  the  fountain  ? ' 

'Nature,'  said  the  unknown  quietly. 

And  Merula  presumptuously  and  provokingly  continuing 
to  prate,  he  disputed  no  further,  but  assented  with  evasive 
politeness.  Only  in  his  cold  eyes  weariness  and  reserve 
became  more  manifest.  At  last  Messer  Giorgio,  having 
come  to  the  end  of  his  argument,  was  reduced  to  silence. 
Then  the  other  pointed  out  certain  depressions  in  the  marble, 
which  in  no  light  could  be  detected  by  the  sight,  yet  were 
plain  to  the  touch  as  the  hand  moved  over  the  smooth 
surface.  ' Moltissime  dolcezzej  he  called  them;  and  then  his 
eye  travelled  over  the  figure,  as  if  in  one  look  he  would 
possess  himself  of  its  sum. 

*  And  I  who  thought  he  did  not  feel ! '  said  Giovanni  to 
himself.  '  Yet  if  he  feels,  how  can  he  measure  and  split  it  up 
into  numbers?     Who  is  he,  Messer  Giorgio?  '  he  whispered ; 

I  tell  me  the  name  of  this  man  ?  ' 

■  Ha,  little  monk  !  is  it  you  ? '  said  Merula  turning  round ; 

I I  had  forgot  you.     Nay,  but  it  is  your  idol :  can  it  be  that 
you  knew  him  not?     It  is  Messer  Leonardo  da  Vinci.' 

And  the  historian  presented  Giovanni  to  the  Master. 

VIII 

Through  the  perfect  stillness  of  early  morning  in  the 
early  spring,  when  the  grass  shone  emerald  between  the 
black  olive-roots  and  the  blue  iris-flowers  were  motionless 
on  their  slender  stems,  Giovanni  and  Leonardo,  he  on  horse- 
back, the  lad  on  foot,  returned  together  to  Florence. 

'  Is  this  really  he  ? '  thought  Giovanni,  watching  him  and 
finding  his  minutest  gesture  interesting. 

He  was  over  forty.  When  silent  and  pensive  his  small, 
keen,  pale-blue  eyes,  under  overhanging  golden  eyebrows, 
seemed  cold  and  piercing;  yet  when  he  talked  they  took 
an  expression  of  great  good  nature.  The  long,  fair  beard  and 
curling  and  luxuriant  hair  gave  him  an  air  of  majesty.  He 
was  tall  and  powerful  in  build,  yet  his  face  had  a  subtle 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  29 

charm  which  was  almost  feminine,  and  his  thin  high  voice, 
though  pleasant,  was  not  manly.  His  hand,  reining  a  restive 
steed,  was  very  strong,  yet  it  also  was  delicate,  with  long, 
slender  fingers  like  a  woman's. 

They  were  nearing  the  town  walls  ;  and  the  misty  morning 
sun  shone  upon  the  dome  of  the  cathedral,  and  the  quaint 
tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio. 

'This  is  my  opportunity,'  thought  Boltraffio.  '  I  must  tell 
him  I  would  fain  enter  his  studio  as  a  pupil.' 

Just  then  Leonardo  checked  his  horse  and  fixed  his  eyes 
on  a  young  falcon  circling  slowly  and  easily  in  the  air  above 
its  quarry — some  duck  or  heron  in  the  reeds  of  the  Mugnone's 
bank.  Presently,  with  a  short  cry,  it  dropped  headlong,  like 
a  stone,  swooping  down  from  the  height  and  disappearing 
behind  the  trees.  Leonardo  had  followed  it  with  his  gaze, 
not  losing  a  single  turn,  a  movement,  a  flap  of  the  strong 
wings ;  then  he  took  his  note-book  from  his  girdle  and  jotted 
down  the  result  of  his  observation. 

Boltraffio  noticed  that  he  held  the  pencil  in  his  left  hand  ; 
and  remembered  strange  tales  he  had  heard  of  his  writing  in 
a  mysterious  reversed  hand  only  to  be  read  in  a  mirror,  from 
right  to  left,  as  men  write  in  the  East.  Some  said  he  wrote 
thus  to  make  an  enigma  of  his  wicked  heretical  opinions 
about  nature  and  about  God. 

'  Now  or  never  !'  Giovanni  was  saying  to  himself;  but  all 
at  once  Antonio's  harsh  words  flashed  across  his  mind  :  '  "  Go 
to  him  if  you  would  lose  your  soul :  he  is  a  sinner  and  an 
atheist.'" 

Smiling,  Leonardo  drew  his  attention  to  an  almond-tree, 
on  the  crest  of  a  bare,  wind-swept  hill,  very  small,  very 
feeble,  very  solitary,  yet  already  hopeful  and  joyous,  and 
decking  itself  with  pale  blossoms,  which  gleamed  and  glistened 
against  the  azure  of  the  sunlit  sky. 

Boltraffio  could  not  admire  it,  for  his  heart  was  heavy  and 
perplexed.  Then  Leonardo,  as  if  guessing  at  his  disquietude, 
spoke  gentle  words  which  the  young  man  remembered  long 
afterwards. 

1  If  you  wish  to  be  an  artist,  put  away  all  grief  and  care 
from  your  mind,  save  that  for  art  itself.  Let  your  soul  be  as 
a  mirror  reflecting  all  objects,  all  colours,  all  movements,  but 
itself  remaining  ever  clear  and  unmoved.' 

They  passed  in  through  the  gates  of  Florence. 


3©  THE  FORERUNNER 


IX 


Boltraffio  went  to  the  cathedral,  where  that  morning  Fra 
Girolamo  Savonarola  was  to  preach.  As  he  entered,  the  last 
notes  of  the  organ  were  dying  away  under  the  resounding 
arches  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore.  The  throng  had  filled 
the  church  with  suffocating  heat  and  with  the  low  rustlings 
of  unceasing  small  movements.  Men,  women,  and  children 
were  separated  from  each  other  by  drawn  curtains.  Under 
the  arches,  slender  and  narrow  like  arrow-heads,  deep  gloom 
and  mystery  reigned  as  in  a  sleeping  forest.  The  rays  of 
sunlight,  refracted  by  brilliantly  coloured  glass,  fell  in  rain- 
bow hues  upon  the  congregation  and  upon  the  grey  marble 
of  the  pillars,  The  semi-darkness  surrounding  the  altar  was 
broken  by  the  glare  of  candles.  Mass  was  over  and  the  crowd 
was  awaiting  the  preacher.  All  looks  were  fixed  on  the 
wooden  pulpit. 

Giovanni  found  a  place  in  the  crowd  and  listened  to  the 
whisperings  of  his  neighbours. 

*  Will  he  come  soon  ? '  was  asked  impatiently  by  a  carpenter 
of  low  stature,  with  a  pale  perspiring  face  and  lank  hair  bound 
by  a  fillet. 

*  God  knows  ! '  responded  a  tinker,  big  and  red-faced,  but 
asthmatic.  '  He  has  with  him  at  San  Marco  a  certain  little 
brother  named  Marufi,  with  a  hunchback  and  a  stammering 
tongue,  and  'tis  he  chooses  the  hour  for  his  coming.  We 
waited  four  hours  once,  and  had  thought  there  would  be  no 
preaching,  yet  in  the  end  he  came/ 

'Santo  Dio  Benedetto  !  And  I  have  waited  since  midnight ! 
I  am  blind  for  sleep  and  for  want  of  a  crumb  in  my  mouth. 
I  could  sit  down  upon  knives ! ' 

*  Did  I  not  tell  thee,  Damiano,  'twas  matter  of  patience  ? 
Even  now  we  are  so  far  from  the  pulpit  we  shall  hear 
naught.' 

*  Eh !  We  shall  hear  well  enough.  When  he  falls  to  at 
his  shouting  and  his  thundering,  not  the  deaf  only  but  the 
very  dead  must  needs  hear.' 

'They  say  now,  that  he  prophesies.' 

'Not  yet !    Not  till  he  has  built  Noah's  Ark/ 

*  He  has  built  it ;  to  the  last  plank.  Yea,  and  made  a 
parabolic  description  thereof.  Its  length,  Faith  ;  its  breadth, 
Charity;  its  altitude,  Hope.     Haste,  he  says,  haste  to  the 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  31 

Ark  of  Salvation,  while  the  doors  stand  wide.  The  day 
cometh  when  the  doors  will  be  put  to,  and  then  many 
shall  weep  that  they  have  not  repented  and  have  not  come 
in  time  to  enter  within.  To-day  he  preaches  of  the  Flood, 
the  seventeenth  verse  of  the  sixth  chapter  of  the  book  of 
Genesis/ 

*  They  say  he  has  had  another  vision :  Famine  War, 
Pestilence ! ' 

'The  horse-dealer  in  Vallombrosa  said  that  a  night  or 
two  agone  great  hosts  fought  in  the  sky  over  the  city, 
and  one  could  hear  the  clash  of  swords  and  the  dinting  of 
armour.' 

'  And  it  is  a  certainty,  good  folk,  that  on  the  Nunziata  in 
the  Chiesa  dei  Servi  has  been  seen  a  bloody  sweat.' 

1  Go  to  !  And  tears  run  nightly  from  the  Madonna  on  the 
Rubaconte  bridge.     Lucia,  my  aunt,  saw  it  herself! ' 

1  And  it  means  no  good,  rest  assured.  The  Lord  have 
mercy  on  us,  miserable  sinners  ! ' 

Meanwhile,  among  the  women,  there  was  a  disturbance. 
An  old  woman  fainted,  and  when  lifted  up,  still  did  not 
recover  her  senses.  The  whole  multitude  indeed  was  worn 
by  the  interminable  waiting;  the  pale  carpenter  seemed 
unable  to  sustain  himself  longer. 

But  suddenly  a  wave  stirred  the  sea  of  heads,  and  a  whisper 
ran  through  the  church. 

1  He  is  coming  ! ' 

'Nay,  'tis  not  he,  'tis  Fra  Domenico  da  Pescia.' 

*  I  tell  you,  yea,  'tis  he !     He  has  come.' 

Giovanni  saw  a  man  in  the  black  and  white  Dominican 
habit  girdled  with  a  rope,  who  slowly  ascended  the  pulpit- 
stair  and  removed  his  cowl.  His  face  was  emaciated  and 
yellow  as  wax,  his  lips  thick,  his  nose  aquiline,  his  forehead 
low.  His  left  hand  fell  weakly  on  the  desk,  his  right  he 
raised  clutching  the  crucifix ;  and  silently  with  burning  eyes 
he  looked  upon  the  trembling  and  expectant  crowd.  Pro- 
found silence  reigned,  in  which  each  man  could  hear  the 
beating  of  his  own  heart.  The  eyes  of  the  monk  glowed 
increasingly,  till  they  were  like  fiery  coals ;  but  he  still  kept 
silence,  and  the  strain  of  waiting  became  unendurable.  It 
seemed  that  in  another  moment  the  crowd  would  burst  into 
screams. 

Yet  the  calm  became  deeper,  more  awful ;  till  suddenly, 


32  THE  FORERUNNER 

rending  the  silence,  came  the  terrible,  lacerating,  superhuman 
cry  of  the  friar : — 

1 Ecce  ego  adduco  aquas  super  terram,  Behold  I  bring  a 
Flood  upon  the  earth  ! ' 

A  shudder  passed  through  the  crowd,  raising  the  hair  from 
the  head.  Giovanni  paled  ;  he  fancied  the  earth  quaking,  the 
cathedral  arches  about  to  fall.  Beside  him  the  stalwart 
tinker  was  shaking  like  a  leaf,  his  teeth  chattering.  The 
head  of  the  feeble  carpenter  had  sunk  backward  on  his 
shoulders  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow,  his  face  was  shrivelled, 
his  eyelids  closed. 

What  followed  was  not  a  sermon  but  a  delirium,  which 
took  hold  of  these  thousands  of  people  and  shook  them 
as  a  storm  shakes  the  withered  leaves.  Giovanni  listened, 
scarcely  understanding.  Detached  phrases  reached  his 
ear: — 

1  See  ye,  see  how  the  heavens  have  already  darkened ;  the 
sun  is  purple,  like  clotted  blood.  Flee !  Hide  yourselves ! 
There  cometh  even  now  a  rain  of  brimstone  and  fire ;  a  hail 
of  fiery  stones  and  thunderbolts.  Fuge  O  Sion  quae  habitas 
apudfiliam  Babylonis  !  O  Italy,  chastisement  cometh  upon 
chastisement.  After  pestilence,  war ;  and  hunger  after  war ! 
Judgment  is  here,  judgment  is  there  !  Everywhere  there  is 
judgment.  Among  you  the  living  suffice  not  to  carry  the 
dead.  The  dead  in  your  houses  shall  be  so  many  that  the 
grave-diggers  shall  call  to  you  to  throw  them  out,  and  shall 
heap  them  on  carts,  yea,  to  the  very  necks  of  the  horses,  and 
shall  throw  them  one  upon  the  other  and  burn  them.  And 
then  again  they  shall  go  through  the  streets  and  cry,  "  Who 
has  any  dead  ?  Who  has  any  dead  ?  "  And  you  will  answer 
them  :  "  I  throw  to  you  my  son,  I  throw  to  you  my  brother, 
I  throw  to  you  my  husband  ! "  And  then  they  shall  go  further, 
and  always  they  shall  cry :  "  Bring  forth  your  dead !  bring 
forth  your  dead  ! "  O  Florence  !  O  Rome !  O  Italy !  Past  is 
the  time  of  songs  and  of  feasting ;  ye  are  sickened  unto  death. 
Lord,  Thou  art  witness,  that  with  my  words  I  would  have 
averted  this  ruin !  But  I  can  no  more.  I  have  no  words 
more.  I  can  but  weep,  and  run  over  with  my  tears.  Mercy ! 
Mercy !  O  merciful  Lord  !  Alas  !  my  poor  people !  Alas  ! 
my  Florence ! ' 

He  opened  his  arms,  and  the  last  words  had  sunk  to  a 
scarcely  audible  whisper.     They  passed  over  the  crowd  and 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  33 

died  away,  like  the  rustle  of  wind  in  the  leaves — a  sigh  of 
infinite  pity. 

Pressing  his  white  lips  on  the  crucifix,  he  knelt  and  burst 
into  sobs.  The  sermon  was  ended.  The  slow,  heavy  organ- 
notes  rolled  out,  persuasive  and  immense,  increasingly  solemn 
and  terrible,  like  the  sound  of  the  mighty  ocean. 

A  woman's  voice  cried  *  Misericordia  I ' 

And  thousands  of  voices  answered,  calling  one  to  another; 
and  like  corn  stalks  bowing  before  the  wind,  the  people  fell 
upon  their  knees,  line  upon  line,  wave  upon  wave,  crowding 
upon,  striking  against  each  other,  like  a  flock  of  sheep  panic- 
struck  at  the  advance  of  a  storm ;  and  the  long,  agonising  wail 
of  penitents  upon  whom  pressed  the  terror  of  immediate 
ruin,  rose  to  Heaven,  mingling  with  the  pealing  of  music, 
shaking  the  ground,  the  marble  pillars,  and  the  vaults  of  the 
cathedral. 

Misericordia  /    Misericordia  I ' 

Giovanni  also  sank  to  his  knees,  sobbing.  The  tall  tinker 
rolled  against  him,  breathing  hard ;  the  pale  carpenter  caught 
his  breath  and  cried  like  a  child,  moaning — 

'Misericordia  I ' 

And  Boltraffio  remembered  his  pride,  and  his  love  of  life, 
his  desire  to  escape  from  Fra  Benedetto,  and  to  give  himself 
up  to  the  dangerous  arts  of  Messer  Leonardo,  the  enemy  of 
God;  he  recalled  the  past  fearful  night  on  the  Hill  of  the 
Mill,  the  recovered  Venus,  his  sinful  enthusiasm  for  the 
heathen  beauty  of  the  'White  She-devil';  stretching  forth 
his  hands  to  heaven,  he  mingled  his  voice  with  that  of  the 
despairing  crowd,  and  cried — 

'  Lord  !  Lord  !  have  compassion  on  me !  I  have  sinned 
before  thee.     Pardon,  and  have  mercy.' 

At  that  moment,  raising  his  face,  wet  with  tears,  he  saw  at 
his  side  the  tall,  upright  form  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  The 
artist,  leaning  carelessly  against  a  column,  held  in  his  right 
hand  his  unfailing  sketch-book  ;  with  his  left  he  was  drawing ; 
now  and  then  he  glanced  at  the  pulpit  as  if  hoping  to  see 
once  more  the  head  of  the  preacher. 

A  stranger,  and  surrounded  by  the  terrified  crowd, 
Leonardo  maintained  a  superb  composure.  In  his  cool, 
blue  eyes,  on  his  thin  lips,  tightly  compressed  like  those  of  a 
man  of  minute  observation,  there  was  the  same  aloofness 
and  curiosity  with  which  he  had  mathematically  measured 


34  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  body  of  the  Aphrodite.  At  sight  of  him  the  tears  dried 
in  Giovanni's  eyes,  and  the  prayer  was  silenced  upon  his  lips. 

Leaving  the  church  he  followed  the  artist  and  asked 
permission  to  see  his  sketch.  Leonardo  demurred,  but 
presently  handed  the  boy  his  sketch-book.  And  Giovanni  saw 
a  frightful  caricature  ;  not  Savonarola,  but  an  old  and  hideous 
devil  in  the  dress  of  a  monk,  like  the  preacher  indeed,  but 
as  if  disfigured  by  self-inflicted  and  torturing  penance,  his 
pride  and  his  desires  still  unsubdued.  The  lower  jaw  pro- 
truded, wrinkles  intersected  the  cheek,  the  neck  was  twisted 
and  black  as  a  mummy's,  the  bushy,  beetling  brows,  the  rabid 
glance  scarce  preserved  a  semblance  of  humanity.  All  that 
was  dark,  terrible,  and  superstitious,  all  which  gave  Savonarola 
into  the  power  of  the  deformed,  tongue-tied  visionary  Marufi, 
was  expressed  by  Leonardo  in  this  sketch;  brought  out 
with  neither  anger  nor  pity,  but  with  an  imperturbable  and 
impartial  clear-sightedness. 

And  Giovanni  remembered  his  words :  '  L'ingegno  delf 
pittore  vuol  essere  a  similitudine  dello  specchio.  The  genius 
of  the  painter  should  be  as  a  mirror,  reflecting  all  objects, 
and  colours,  and  movements,  itself  ever  transparent  and 
serene.' 

The  pupil  of  Benedetto  raised  his  eyes  to  the  artist's 
face,  and  felt  that  though  threatened  by  eternal  damnation, 
though  he  were  to  find  in  Messer  Leonardo  a  veritable  servant 
of  Antichrist,  yet  to  leave  him  had  become  impossible;  an 
irresistible  force  was  drawing  him  to  this  man  ;  woe  unto  him 
if  he  failed  to  penetrate  into  the  very  depths  of  this  being  and 
of  his  art. 


Two  days  later,  Messer  Cipriano  having  been  detained  by 
affairs  in  Florence,  and  unable  to  arrange  for  the  transport  of 
the  Venus,  Grillo  burst  in  upon  him  with  most  unwelcome 
tidings.  Don  Faustino,  it  seemed,  had  left  San  Gervaso 
and  betaken  himself  to  San  Maurizio,  the  neighbouring 
village.  Here,  having  terrified  the  people  with  talk  of  the 
chastisement  of  Heaven,  he  had  collected  a  party  by  night, 
besieged  the  villa,  broken  in  the  doors,  thrashed  Strocco  the 
gardener,  who  had  been  left  in  charge  of  the  statue,  and 
bound  him  hand  and  foot     Then  the  priest  had  recited  over 

to  ■     •  • 


THE  WHITE  SHE-DEVIL— 1494  35 

the  goddess  an  ancient  prayer  called  '  Oratio  super  effigies 
vasaque  in  loco  antiqua  repertaj  in  which  the  servant  of  the 
Church  asks  God  to  purify  all  statuary,  vessels,  and  other 
objects  dug  out  of  the  ground,  and  to  convert  them  to  the 
profit  of  Christian  souls,  to  the  glory  of  the  Trinity,  '  ut,  omni 
immunditia  depu/saf  sint  fidelibus  tuis  utenda  per  Christum 
dominum  nostrum?  Then  they  broke  up  the  statue  of  the 
goddess,  cast  the  fragments  into  a  furnace,  made  of  them  a 
cement,  and  with  it  daubed  the  new-raised  wall  of  the  village 
cemetery. 

As  he  told  this  tale  the  old  man  wept  for  grief.  But  the 
event  helped  Giovanni  Boltraffio  to  a  decision.  That  very 
day  he  presented  himself  before  Messer  Leonardo  and  begged 
to  be  received  as  a  pupil.     Leonardo  accepted  him. 

A  little  later,  tidings  were  brought  to  Florence  that 
Charles  vni.,  Most  Christian  King  of  France,  had  taken  the 
field  with  a  countless  host  for  the  conquering  of  the  Two 
Sicilies,  and  'probably  also  of  Rome  and  Florence.  Panic 
spread  among  the  citizens.  They  perceived  that  the  prophecy 
of  Savonarola  was  being  fulfilled.  Punishment  was  at  their 
door  I    The  sword  of  the  Lord  was  drawn  upon  Italy ! 


I 


BOOK    II 

ECCE   DEUS — ECCE   HOMO — 1 494 

'  Behold  the  man  ! ' — St.  John  xix.  5. 

•  Behold  the  God  ! ' 
(Inscription  on  the  monument  of  Francesco  Sforza.) 


'  If  the  eagle  can  sustain  himself  in  the  rarest  atmosphere, 
if  great  ships  by  sails  can  float  across  the  waves,  why  cannot 
likewise  Man,  by  means  of  powerful  wings,  make  himself  lord 
of  the  winds,  and  rise,  the  conqueror  of  space  ? ' 

Leonardo  found  these  words  in  one  of  his  old  note-books, 
written  five  years  earlier  with  the  buoyancy  of  hope.  Opposite 
was  the  sketch  of  a  machine ;  a  beam,  to  which  by  means  of 
iron  rods,  were  attached  wings  to  be  moved  by  cords  and 
pulleys.  Now  the  apparatus  seemed  to  him  clumsy  and 
absurd. 

His  new  machine  was  like  an  enormous  bat.  The  body 
of  the  wings  was  formed  by  five  wooden  fingers,  like  a 
skeleton  hand,  with  many  joints  and  pliant  articulations. 
Tendons  and  muscles  connecting  these  fingers  were  formed 
by  strips  of  tanned  leather  and  laces  of  raw  silk.  The  wing 
rose  by  means  of  a  crank  and  a  moveable  piston,  and 
was  covered  by  impermeable  taffeta.  It  resembled  the 
webbed  foot  of  a  goose.  There  were  four  wings  moving  in 
turn  like  the  legs  of  a  horse.  Their  length  was  forty  bracria, 
their  spread,  eight.  They  bent  backward  for  propulsion,  and 
dropped  to  make  the  machine  rise.  A  man  was  to  sit  in 
it  astride,  and  with  his  feet  in  stirrups  was  to  move  the 
wings  by  a  machinery  of  cords,  blocks,  and  levers.     A  great 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  37 

rudder,  feathered  like  the  tail  of  a  bird,  was  to  be  turned  by 
his  head. 

But  a  bird,  before  the  first  flap  of  his  wings  carries  him  from 
the  earth,  must  first  raise  himself  by  his  feet.  The  short- 
legged  swift,  for  instance,  if  placed  upon  the  ground  struggles 
but  cannot  fly.  Therefore  in  the  machine  two  cane  stilts 
were  indispensable,  although  their  inelegance  greatly  dis- 
turbed the  inventor.  Perfection  could  not  exist  without 
beauty.  He  plunged  into  calculations,  hoping  to  lay  his 
finger  on  a  blunder.  Failing,  he  impatiently  drew  a  pencil 
across  a  whole  page  of  figures  and  wrote  on  the  margin — 

1  Incorrect ' ;  and  presently,  lSatanasso  P    He  was  enraged. 

Then  he  recommenced;  but  his  calculations  became  more 
and  more  confused,  and  the  scarce  perceptible  error  grew 
increasingly  distinct,  as  he  worked  on  and  on  by  the  light  of 
a  flickering  candle  which  offended  his  eyes. 

Then  his  cat,  suddenly  waking,  leaped  on  the  work-table^ 
stretched  himself,  humped  his  back,  and  began  to  play  with 
a  moth-eaten  scarecrow  of  a  stuffed  bird  dangling  from  a 
wooden  perch — a  contrivance  for  studying  the  centre  of 
gravity  in  the  act  of  flight.  The  inventor  pushed  the  cat| 
angrily  away,  nearly  knocking  him  down  and  causing  a 
plaintive  mewing. 

1  Bless  your  heart !  you  may  go  where  you  like  so  long  as 
you  don't  interfere  with  me,'  said  Leonardo  apologetically, 
rubbing  the  smooth,  black  fur  which  emitted  electric  sparks. 
The  cat  purred,  sat  down  majestically,  doubling  his  velvet 
paws  under  him,  and  fixing  on  his  master  steady  green  eyes 
full  of  self-satisfaction  and  mystery. 

Once  more  figures,  fractions,  brackets,  equations,  cubic  and 
square  roots  appeared  upon  the  paper.  It  was  the  second 
night  he  had  passed  without  sleep ;  for  a  whole  month  since 
his  return  from  Florence  he  had  scarcely  set  foot  out- 
side the  house,  but  had  worked  unceasingly  at  the  flying- 
machine. 

The  branches  of  a  white  acacia  intruded  through  an  open 
window,  and  sometimes  cast  on  the  table  their  tender,  odorous 
blossoms.  The  moonlight,  softened  by  a  mist  of  clouds, 
tinted  like  mother-o'-pearl,  flooded  the  chamber,  and  mingled 
with  the  murky  illumination  from  the  tallow  candle.  The 
room  was  choked  with  machinery  and  instruments,  astro- 
nomical,   physical,   chemical,    mechanical,   and   anatomical. 


3$  THE  FORERUNNER 

Wheels,  levers,  springs,  screws,  chimneys,  pistons,  arcs,  suction- 
tubes,  brass,  steel,  iron,  and  glass,  like  the  limbs  of  half-seen 
monsters  or  colossal  insects,  peered  out  of  the  darkness. 
There  was  a  diving-bell,  beside  it  the  dulled  crystal  of  an 
optical  apparatus  resembling  a  great  eye;  then  the  skeleton 
of  a  horse,  a  stuffed  crocodile,  a  human  abortion  preserved  in 
spirit,  a  pair  of  boat-shaped  shoes  for  walking  on  the  water, 
and  lastly,  the  clay  head  of  a  child  or  of  an  angel,  strayed 
hither  from  the  sculptor's  studio,  and  smiling  slyly  and 
mournfully  at  its  surroundings.  In  the  background  was  a 
crucible  and  blacksmith's  bellows,  and  coals  lay  red  upon 
the  ashes  of  a  furnace.  Gigantic  wings,  one  still  bare,  the 
other  already  invested  with  its  membrane,  were  spread  out 
over  all  the  room,  dominating  the  whole  from  floor  to  ceiling. 
And  sprawling  on  the  ground,  with  nodding  head,  lay  a  man, 

tZoroastro,  Leonardo's  assistant,  who  had  fallen  asleep  at  his 
Post,  oil  flowing  from  the  blackened  brass  ladle  which  he 
ield  in  his  hand.  One  of  the  wings  touched  the  chest  of  the 
leeper,  and  was  softly  vibrating  as  he  breathed ;  it  seemed 
alive,  and  its  sharp  upper  end  rustled  against  the  rafters  of 
fthe  ceiling. 

In  the  uncertain  light  the  machine,  with  this  man  between 
its  extended  and  moving  wings,  was  like  some  stupendous 
vampire  ready  to  rise  and  fly. 


II 

Gardens  surrounded  Leonardo's  house  outside  Milan — 
between  the  fortress  and  the  Convent  of  Santa  Maria  delle 
Grazie — and  thence  came  a  fine  perfume  of  fruits  and  herbs, 
thyme,  and  bergamot,  and  fennel.  The  moon  had  set. 
Swallows  under  the  windows  were  twittering  and  preparing 
to  fly,  ducks  splashed  and  quacked  in  the  neighbouring  pond. 
The  candle  was  dying  in  its  socket ;  voices  of  the  pupils  were 
heard  from  the  studio  hard  by. 

The  students  were  two,  Giovanni  Boltrarfio  and  Andrea 
Salaino.  Giovanni  was  copying  an  anatomical  figure,  and 
sitting  before  a  contrivance  for  the  study  of  perspective — a 
wooden  frame  with  a  string  network  which  corresponded  with 
lines  traced  on  the  drawing-paper  :  Salaino  was  fitting  a  slab 
of  alabaster  to  a  wooden  panel.     He  was  a  pretty  lad  with 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  39 

innocent  eyes  and  fair  curls,  petted  by  the  Master,  who  drew 
his  angels  from  him. 

'How  think  you,  Andrea?'  asked  Boltraffio,  'will  Messer 
Leonardo  soon  finish  this  machine  ? ' 

'God  knows!'  answered  Salaino  whistling,  and  settling 
the  embroidered  flaps  of  his  new  slippers.  '  Last  year  he  sat 
two  months  at  it  and  nothing  resulted  but  laughter.  That 
crooked  bear  Zoroastro  set  himself  to  fly  at  all  hazards.  The 
master  forbade  him,  but  he  did  it.  The  fool  hung  himself 
all  round  with  a  necklace  of  bullock's  bladders,  lest  he  should 
break  anything  if  he  fell;  then  he  mounted  the  roof,  flapped 
his  wings ;  and  true  it  is  he  rose,  but  God  wot  'twas  the  wind 
carried  him,  and  presently  he  turned  topsy-turvy  and  fell  plump 
on  to  a  dunghill;  by  the  Lord's  mercy  'twas  soft  and  he  broke 
no  bones,  but  the  bladders  burst  with  a  roar  like  a  cannon,  the 
daws  in  the  belfry  fled  away  for  very  terror,  and  there  lay  the 
new  Icarus  kicking  the  air,  on  his  head  in  the  manure.' 

Just  then  the  third  pupil  entered,  Cesare  da  Sesto,  a  man 
no  longer  young;  sickly,  and  splenetic,  with  malicious  but 
intelligent  eyes.  He  had  a  sandwich  in  one  hand,  wine  in 
the  other. 

'Peuh!  the  sour  stuff!'  he  said  frowning  and  spitting, 
'and  the  ham,  by  my  troth,  is  boot-leather — yet  one  pays 
two  thousand  ducats  annually  for  these  delicacies  ! ' 

'Try  the  other  cask  from  under  the  pantry  stair.' 

'  I  have  tried  it.  Of  the  two  'tis  the  worse ; '  then  pointing 
to  Salaino's  new  plum-coloured  and  gaily-feathered  cap,  he 
added,  '  Oho !  oho !  some  of  us,  it  seems,  get  new  things. 
But  'tis  the  second  month  since  they  got  any  new  ham  in  the 
kitchen.  Of  a  certainty  things  are  well  managed  here  !  We 
lead  dog's  lives.  Marco  vows  on  the  bones  of  his  mother 
that  the  master  has  not  one  soldo  left  in  the  bag.  He  has 
squandered  everything  on  these  cursed  wings  of  his,  and 
begins  his  sparing  by  starving  us.  But  I'll  teach  you  where 
else  his  money  goes.  In  gifts  for  his  darlings,  in  medals  and 
velvet  caps.  Have  you  no  shame,  Andrea,  to  receive  alms  ? 
Is  Messer  Leonardo  your  father  or  your  brother?  or  are  you 
still  a  baby?' 

'  Cesare,'  interrupted  Giovanni,  to  give  a  new  turn  to  the 
discourse,  '  you  made  promise  to  expound  me  the  axioms  of 
perspective.  We  waste  time  expecting  the  master,  who  is 
overstudious  of  his  machine ' 


4o  THE  FORERUNNER 

'Ay,  ay,  my  friend.  We  shall  all  be  confounded  some 
day  by  that  machine,  devil  take  it  !  And  if  it  is  not  this 
machine  'tis  another.  I  remember  how  in  the  very  middle 
of  the  Cenacoloy  the  Master,  forsooth,  must  needs  break 
off  to  invent  a  new  mincing-machine  for  sausages ;  and  the 
head  of  St.  James  could  not  get  stuck  on  his  shoulders, 
because  Leonardo  was  dissatisfied  with  the  blades  of  the 
cutter.  And  the  best  of  his  Madonnas  had  to  wait  in  the 
corner,  while  he  devised  a  spit  for  the  roasting  of  sucking-pigs. 
And  what  think  you  of  that  his  other  grand  discovery,  the 
lye  of  fowl's-dung  for  the  washing  of  linen  ?  There  is  no  folly 
for  which  Messer  Leonardo  will  not  sacrifice  his  time  if  he 
can  but  get  away  from  his  paint-brush ; '  and  Cesare's  face 
puckered  itself,  and  his  lips  curled  in  a  malicious  laugh. 

'  Why,  I  pr'ythee,  why  does  God  give  genius  to  such  men?7 
he  added  in  a  low,  trembling  voice. 


Ill 

Leonardo  was  still  at  work,  bending  over  his  writing-table. 
A  swallow  flew  in  at  the  window  and  wheeled  about  the  room, 
brushing  against  the  ceiling  and  the  walls,  till  caught  by  the 
great  bat,  its  little,  living  wings  fast  held  by  the  network  of 
artificial  tendons.  Cautiously  Leonardo  rose  and  delicately 
freed  the  prisoner,  took  it  in  his  hand,  kissed  the  silky  black 
head,  and  let  it  fly  away.  The  swallow  soared,  and  was  lost 
in  the  blue  air,  screaming  its  cries  of  joy. 

*  How  simple,  how  easy  its  flight,'  he  thought,  as  he  followed 
it  with  disappointed,  envious  eyes.  He  threw  a  contemptuous 
glance  at  his  machine,  the  dark  skeleton  of  that  tremendous 
bat. 

The  man  who  was  lying  on  the  floor  suddenly  awoke.  He 
was  a  Florentine,  a  skilful  mechanic  and  smith,  by  name 
Zoroastro,  or  more  shortly,  Astro  da  Paretola.  A  clumsy 
giant,  with  the  simple  face  of  a  child,  always  covered  with 
soot  and  grime,  he  looked  a  Cyclops,  for  he  had  but  one  eye, 
the  other  having  been  long  ago  destroyed  by  a  spark  from 
some  blazing  metal. 

Rubbing  his  single  orb  and  scratching  his  shaggy  head  he 
cried,  'The  devil  take  me  for  a  blockhead!  Master,  why 
did  you  not  hinder  me  from  slumbering?      I  who  was  so 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  41 

zealously  affected,  who  only  thought  how  to  hurry  the  evening 
that  the  morning  and  the  flying  might  come  ! ' 

*  You  were  wise  to  sleep,'  said  Leonardo,  '  for  the  wings 
have  failed.' 

* What!  these  also?  Nay,  master,  but  I  will  not  make 
your  machine  again.  Think  of  the  money,  the  labour  we 
have  thrown  to  the  wind  !  What  better  can  you  want  ?  Not 
to  fly,  on  wings  like  those,  would  be  impossible  !  An  elephant 
could  rise  on  them.  Pr'ythee,  master,  let  me  try !  I  will 
prove  them  over  water,  and  then  if  I  fall  I  '11  come  off  with 
no  worse  than  a  bathing.  I  can  swim  as  a  fish ;  I  wasn't  born 
to  be  drowned.' 

And  he  clasped  his  hands  supplicatingly.  Leonardo, 
however,  shook  his  head. 

I  Patience,  friend,  have  yet  patience.  It  will  come  in  its 
own  time,  and  then — ' 

'  Then)'  cried  the  smith,  almost  in  tears.  'Why  not  now? 
Of  a  surety,  master,  as  true  as  God  is  in  heaven,  I  shall 
fly.' 

'No,  Astro,  fly  thou  wilt  not.     By  a  mathematical  law 

'  I  could  have  sworn  you  would  say  that !  To  the  devil 
with  your  mathematical  laws,  for  they  upset  everything. 
And  to  think  of  the  years  we  have  laboured !  I  am  sick  to 
remember  it !  Every  gnat,  mosquito,  fly,  I  pray  you  license 
— every  muck-fty,  every  dunghill-fty — has  its  wings ;  and  men 
crawl  like  worms.  'Tis  rank  injustice  !  And  why  should  we 
doubt?  There  they  are,  your  wings,  ready,  and  beautiful; 
ready  to  be  blessed  of  God,  and  spread,  and  to  be  off! 
And  then  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see  ! ' 

He  paused,  seemed  to  recall  something,  and  continued 
more  calmly : — 

'I  would  tell  you  a  thing,  master.  This  very  night  I 
dreamed,  nay,  but  I  dreamed ' 

I I  conceive  you  !     You  flew.' 

'Ay.  But  how?  Hear  me.  I  stood  in  a  chamber, 
where  I  know  not,  and  amid  a  throng.  They  looked  at  me 
and  pointed,  and  then  they  laughed.  And  I  said  to  myself, 
"cursed  spite  'twill  be  if  I  fly  not."  So  I  got  up  and  I  shook 
my  arms  and  I  rose ;  I  warrant  you  'twas  hard,  as  though  I 
would  raise  a  mountain  on  my  back  !  But  'twas  soon  lighter, 
and  I  rose  till  my  head  was  in  the  roof.  And  they  cried 
aloud,  Behold  him !  he  flieth !      Ay,  and  I  passed  through 


42  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  window  like  yon  bird,  and  I  circled  higher  and  yet 
higher,  till  I  touched  the  sky.  And  the  wind  whistled  in  my 
ears,  and  I  laughed  for  very  joy.  "Why,"  I  questioned 
of  myself,  "did  I  never  fly  till  now?  'Tis  mighty  easy;  and 
there  is  no  call  for  any  machinery  at  all." ' 

IV 

Shouts,  oaths,  and  the  quick  thump  of  footsteps  inter- 
rupted them.  The  door  was  flung  wide,  and  a  fiery-haired, 
freckle-faced  man,  dragging  a  child  of  ten  by  the  ear,  burst 
into  the  chamber.  It  was  Leonardo's  pupil,  Marco 
d'Oggione. 

'  May  the  Lord  send  you  an  ill  Easter ! '  he  shouted ; 
*  Rascal,  I  will  set  my  heels  upon  your  throat ! ' 

*  What  coil  is  this,  Marco  ? '  asked  Leonardo. 

'I  pray  you  listen,  Master.  This  same  young  rogue  has 
filched  my  silver  buckles ;  ten  florins  each  did  they  cost  me  ! 
One  he  has  gambled  away  at  his  dice;  the  other  I  have 
found  in  his  stocking.  I  did  but  pull  him  by  the  hair,  and 
now,  son  of  the  devil  that  he  is,  he  hath  bitten  my  finger  to 
the  bone.' 

And  he  would  again  have  attacked  the  little  lad  by  his 
curls  had  not  Leonardo  rescued  him.  Then  Marco,  who 
kept  the  keys  of  the  house,  took  them  from  his  pouch  and 
flung  them  on  the  ground. 

1  Take  them  up,  sir !  I  will  be  warden  no  longer.  I  live 
no  longer  in  the  house  with  rascals  and  with  thieves  !  S 

*  Peace,  Marco,  peace ;  and  leave  this  babe  to  me.' 

The  other  three  now  came  from  the  studio,  and  presently 
Maturina,  the  fat  cook,  squeezed  herself  into  the  group, 
carrying  her  market  basket.  Seeing  the  little  sinner,  she 
flung  up  her  hands  and  gabbled  with  the  monotony  of  dry 
peas  pouring  through  a  broken  bag.  Cesare  talked  also 
volubly,  demanding  why  this  'pagan  of  a  Jacopo'  was 
allowed  to  stay,  for  the  playing  of  every  malicious  and  spite- 
ful trick  capable  of  invention;  had  he  not  maimed  the 
watch-dog,  stoned  the  nests  of  the  swallows,  torn  wings  from 
butterflies? 

Jacopo  had  taken  refuge  with  the  Master,  his  pale  pretty 
face  quite  impassive,  his  eyes,  sinister  in  their  brilliance^ 
turned  to  Leonardo  with  mute  supplication. 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  43 

Leonardo  would  have  appeased  the  tumult,  but  on  his  face 
sat  a  strange  air  of  perplexity  and  weakness,  not  lost  upon 
the  contemptuous  Cesare. 

Presently  the  noise  subsided  of  itself;  and  then  Leonardo, 
with  his  customary  calm,  called  Giovanni  and  invited  him  to 
an  inspection  of  the  Cenacolo,  the  Last  Supper ;  his  greatest 
work.  Giovanni  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  they  went 
together. 


However  they  paused  by  the  courtyard  fountain  that 
Leonardo,  after  his  sleepless  night,  might  refresh  himself  by 
bathing  his  face.  The  day  was  cloudy,  but  windless,  and 
over  all  things  streamed  an  argent  light  which  seemed  to 
come  from  under  water ;  days  like  these  pleased  the  artist 
best  for  painting.  They  were  still  at  the  well  when  the  boy 
Jacopo  crept  up,  bearing  in  his  hands  a  little  case  made  of 
bark. 

1  Messer  Leonardo,'  he  murmured,  '  I  have  brought  it — for 
you,'  and  cautiously  raising  the  lid  he  showed  a  huge  im- 
prisoned spider.  '  I  have  watched  it  this  three  days,'  he  said 
enthusiastically ;  { 'tis  poisonous !  And  'tis  a  terror  to  see 
how  he  devoureth  flies  ! ' 

His  face  was  radiant  now,  and  catching  a  fly  he  gave  it  to 
the  captive.  The  spider  seized  the  victim  with  its  hairy  legs, 
and  there  was  a  fight  and  great  buzzing. 

*  He  sucks  it !  He  sucks  it !'  cried  the  child  in  an  ecstasy; 
and  Leonardo  bent  over  the  struggling  creatures  to  watch. 

It  seemed  to  Giovanni  that  on  the  two  so  different  faces 
was  the  same  expression  :  a  hideous  pleasure  in  the  horrible. 

When  the  fly  had  been  murdered  and  devoured  the  boy 
closed  the  little  box,  and  said,  '  I  will  put  it  on  your  table, 
Messer  Leonardo;  you  will  like  to  see  how  he  fights  with 
other  spiders.' 

Then  he  raised  supplicating  eyes,  and  went  on  with 
quivering  lips,  '  Messere,  be  not  wroth  with  me.  I  will  go 
from  you.  I  see  that  I  am  a  trouble  to  you  ;  you  are  good, 
but  those  others  are  evil ;  as  truly  am  I  also — I  who  under- 
stand not  pretending,  as  do  they  !  So  be  it ;  I  will  go  very 
far  away,  and  will  live  alone.  Twill  be  better  so.  Only  do 
thou  pardon  me,  Master,  I  pray,  I  supplicate.    Pardon  thou 


44  THE  FORERUNNER 

me.'  And  great  tears  shone  on  the  child's  long  lashes  as  he 
went  on.  '  Pardon  me,  Master  Leonardo,  and  I  will  leave 
you  the  spider  for  a  remembrance  of  me.  Spiders  live  many 
years ;  and  I  will  ask  Astro  to  feed  it.' 

*  Whither  would  you  go,  poor  child?  Nay,  Marco  shall 
forgive  thee;  I  am  not  wroth  with  thee,  and  truly  I  will 
accept  thy  spider.  In  the  future,  little  one,  seek  to  live 
harmlessly.' 

Jacopo  turned  his  eyes  to  his  Master,  and  in  them  was  no 
gratitude,  only  unbounded  astonishment;  and  Leonardo 
smiled  at  him,  as  if  in  his  great  wisdom  he  understood  the 
child,  and  knew  him  one  of  those  innocent  in  their  wrong 
doing,  because  by  nature  formed  for  evil. 

'It  grows  late,  Giovanni;  let  us  go  on,'  said  Leonardo; 
and  together  they  trod  the  silent  street  which  presently  led 
them  between  the  walls  of  gardens,  vineyards,  and  orchards, 
to  the  convent  of  Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie. 


VI 

Boltraffio  had  for  some  time  been  distressed  by  the  fact 
that  he  could  no  longer  pay  his  master  the  monthly  fee  of 
six  florins  which  had  been  arranged.  His  uncle  had  quar- 
relled with  him,  and  now  refused  him  further  assistance,  and 
Fra  Benedetto,  who  had  lent  him  the  means  for  two  months, 
could  do  no  more. 

So  this  morning  Giovanni  determined  to  explain  matters  to 
his  master.  He  turned  deprecatingly  to  him,  and  reddening 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  stammered  : — 

'Messere,  we  are  at  the  14th  of  the  month,  and  it  was 
agreed  I  should  pay  you  on  the  10th.  It  irks  me  to  confess 
it,  but  I  have  no  more  than  these  three  florins.  Would  you 
consent  to  wait?  Soon  I  have  hope  to  get  money.  Merula 
has  promised  me  copying.' 

Leonardo  looked  at  him  astonished, 

*  What  speech  is  this,  Giovanni?     Are  you  not  ashamed?' 

By  his  disciple's  blush,  by  his  confusion,  by  his  patched 
shoes  and  threadbare  clothes  he  guessed  that  Giovanni  was 
very  poor.  So  he  frowned,  and  talked  of  something  else ; 
but  presently  took  occasion  to  hand  the  boy  a  gold  piece, 
saying  carelessly,  '  Lad,  go  buy  me  twenty  sheets  of  the  blue 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  45 

paper  for  my  drawings,  and  a  parcel  of  red  chalk,  and 
another  of  badger  brushes.     Take  the  money.' 

'A  ducat?  to  pay  a  matter  of  ten  soldi}  I  will  bring  you 
the  surplus.' 

*  By  no  means.  I  care  not  for  such  trifles.  Some  day, 
perchance,  you  will  be  able  to  pay  it  back.  And  talk  no 
more  to  me  of  money  :  do  you  hear? ' 

He  went  on  at  once  to  remark  on  the  misty  outlines  of  the 
larch  trees  along  both  banks  of  the  straight  canal  called  the 
Naviglio  Grande,  which  carried  the  eye  into  the  distance  by 
their  long  rows. 

'Have  you  observed,  Giovanni,  that  in  a  light  mist  the 
trees  show  blue,  in  a  thick  mist,  grey  ? ' 

And  he  talked  further  of  the  shadows  thrown  by  the  clouds 
upon  the  hills,  one  tone  in  summer  when  their  trees  are 
in  leaf,  another  in  winter  when  their  trees  are  bare.  Then 
he  said  abruptly. 

'You  have  thought  me  a  skinflint  because  on  our  first 
coming  to  terms  you  saw  me  note  every  detail  of  the  bargain 
in  a  book.  I  caught  that  trick  from  my  good  father,  Piero, 
the  notary,  who  knows  his  way  in  affairs  passing  well.  But 
the  habit  is  an  idle  one  for  me.  I  am  extreme  to  mark 
trifles  such  as  the  price  of  the  feather  in  Salaino's  cap ;  yet 
thousands  of  ducats  go  from  me,  and  I  know  not  whither. 
For  the  future,  boy,  regard  not  this  trick.  If  thou  hast 
need  of  money,  take  it ;  and  be  sure  I  give  it  to  thee  as  a 
father  gives  to  a  son.' 

And  Leonardo  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  so  tender,  that 
the  pupil's  heart  was  lightened  and  overflowed  with  joy. 
Then  again  the  master  talked  of  trees,  and  pointing  to  a 
misshapen  white  mulberry,  bade  his  disciple  observe  that  not 
only  every  tree  but  also  every  leaf  has  its  own  figure  different 
from  its  fellows,  even  as  every  son  of  man  has  his  own  face. 
It  seemed  to  Giovanni  that  he  spoke  of  trees  with  no  less 
insight  than  he  had  shown  in  speaking  of  his  needy  dis- 
ciple ;  as  though  loving  observation  of  all  things  living  had 
sharpened  his  eye  to  the  penetration  of  a  seer  and  a  clair- 
voyant. 

They  were  now  in  sight  of  Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie,  the 
church  belonging  to  the  Dominican  convent ;  a  brick  edifice 
with  a  broad  dome  like  a  tent — the  early  work  of  Bramante. 
It  rose  from  the  plain  behind  a  grove  of  dark  mulberry  trees, 


46  THE  FORERUNNER 

and  seemed  rosy  and  gay  against  its  background  of  white  and 
rainy  clouds. 

The  pair  passed  at  once  into  the  convent  refectory. 

VII 

It  was  a  long  bare  hall,  whitewashed,  and  with  a  roof  of 
wooden  rafters.  There  was  a  smell  of  damp,  of  incense,  and 
of  fast-day  fare.  The  Father  Superior  had  his  dining-board  in 
the  recess  by  the  entrance;  on  either  side  were  the  long  narrow 
tables  for  the  monks.  So  still  was  it  that  the  buzz  of  the  flies 
was  audible  in  the  windows,  glazed  with  small,  yellow,  and 
dusty  panes,  and  hollowed  like  the  cells  of  a  honeycomb. 
Now  and  then  voices  came  from  the  kitchen  with  a  clatter  of 
iron  saucepans. 

Opposite  the  prior's  table,  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  there  rose 
a  scaffolding  of  wood  covered  with  coarse  grey  linen ;  Giovanni 
divined  that  behind  it  was  the  magnu?n  opus,  upon  which  the 
Master  had  already  laboured  for  twelve  years ;  the  Cenacolo, 
the  Last  Supper. 

Leonardo  having  ascended  the  scaffold  and  opened  a 
wooden  case  which  contained  his  sketches,  cartoons,  paints, 
etc.,  took  a  small,  well-worn,  much-annotated  Latin  book,  and 
handing  it  to  Giovanni,  bade  him  read  the  thirteenth  chapter 
of  St.  John.     Then  he  removed  the  covering  from  the  fresco. 

Giovanni's  first  impression  was  that  he  saw  not  a  painting 
but  a  prolongation  of  the  room  itself  against  an  actual  back- 
ground of  air.  Another  chamber  seemed  to  have  opened  out 
behind  the  withdrawn  curtain;  the  beams  of  the  ceiling 
passed  on  into  it,  contracting  in  the  distance,  and  the  light  of 
day  was  blended  in  the  quiet  evening  light  above  the  hills  of 
Zion,  which  glowed  through  the  triple  window.  This  second 
supper-room  was  little  less  austere  and  bare  than  the  convent 
refectory.  Though  more  solemn,  the  sacred  table,  with 
its  cups,  plates,  knives,  and  flagons,  was  like  the  board  at 
which  the  monks  nightly  supped ;  the  cloth  with  its  narrow 
stripes,  its  knotted  corners,  its  unsmoothed  folds,  seemed 
still  damp,  as  if  but  just  taken  from  the  convent  linen  room. 

Giovanni  opened  the  Gospel  and  read  : — 

'  Now  before  the  Feast  of  the  Passover,  when  Jesus  knew 
that  his  hour  was  come  that  he  should  depart  out  of  this 
world  unto  the  Father,  .  .  .  and  supper  being  ended,  the 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  47 

devil  having  put  into  the  heart  of  Judas  Iscariot,  Simon's 
son,  to  betray  him.  .  .  . 

4  Jesus  was  troubled  in  spirit,  and  testified  and  said,  Verily 
verily,  I  say  unto  you,  that  one  of  you  shall  betray  me.  Then  the 
disciples  looked  one  on  another,  doubting  of  whom  he  spake. 
Now  there  was  leaning  on  Jesus'  bosom  one  of  his  disciples 
whom  Jesus  loved.' 

Giovanni  again  raised  his  eyes  to  the  fresco.  The  faces  of 
the  apostles  were  so  animated  that  he  seemed  to  hear  their 
speech,  to  look  into  the  depths  of  their  souls,  confounded 
as  they  were  by  the  most  mysterious,  the  most  terrible  of  all 
catastrophes  that  have  ever  taken  place — the  birth  of  that 
sin  by  which  God  was  to  die. 

Specially  was  he  impressed  by  Judas,  by  St.  Peter,  and 
St.  John.  The  head  of  Judas  was  not  yet  painted,  and  the 
body,  bent  backward,  but  dimly  outlined.  Clutching  desper- 
ately at  the  bag  with  convulsive  fingers,  he  had  overturned 
the  salt-cellar,  and  the  salt  was  spilled.  Peter,  impetuous  in 
his  wrath,  was  starting  up  from  behind,  a  knife  still  in  his 
right  hand,  his  left  on  the  shoulder  of  John,  as  if  asking 
the  beloved  disciple  '  of  whom  doth  He  speak  ? '  With  his 
silver  hair,  with  his  splendid  resentment,  his  whole  frame 
showed  that  fiery  zeal,  that  thirst  for  great  deeds,  with  which, 
upon  understanding  the  ineluctable  sufferings  of  his  Master 
he  was  to  cry  'Lord,  why  cannot  I  follow  thee  now?  I 
will  lay  down  my  life  for  thy  sake  ! '  John,  on  the  contrary, 
with  his  long  silken  tresses,  his  eyelids  lowered  as  if  in 
the  peace  of  sleep,  his  folded  hands,  the  long  oval  of  his 
face — seemed  the  ideal  of  calm  and  heavenly  serenity. 
Alone  among  the  disciples  he  knew  no  suffering,  no  fear,  no 
wrath. 

Giovanni  saw,  and  he  said  to  himself,  'Here  is  the  true 
Leonardo  !  And  I  had  doubted  and  well-nigh  believed  the 
calumnies.  The  man  impious  who  created  that?  Nay,  who 
among  men  is  closer  to  Christ  than  he?' 

The  painter,  meantime,  having  completed  the  face  of  John 
with  delicate  touches  of  the  brush,  began  the  charcoal  out- 
line of  the  head  of  Jesus.  Vainly,  however;  he  had  medi- 
tated upon  that  head  for  ten  years,  yet  still  he  could  not 
accomplish  even  the  first  sketch.  Always  when  confronted  by 
that  emptiness  where  the  divine  countenance  should  appear, 
the  artist  trembled  with  mortal  anguish  and  the  sense  of  his 


48  THE  FORERUNNER 

own  impotence.  Throwing  the  charcoal  aside,  passing  a  cloth 
over  the  few  lines  he  had  lightly  traced,  he  fell  into  one  of 
those  reveries  which  sometimes  lasted  for  entire  hours. 
Giovanni  ventured  to  approach  him,  and  saw  his  face  as  it 
were  aged,  severe,  wearing  the  imprint  of  unremitting  tension, 
of  silent  despair. 

Yet,  his  eyes  falling  on  those  of  his  pupil,  Leonardo  said 
kindly — 

'Well,  then,  amico  mio,  what  say  you  of  it?' 

'What  words  have  I,  Master?  It  is  beautiful,  with  a 
beauty  beyond  aught  in  this  world.  None  other  has  so 
understood  that  scene!  But  nay,  I  will  not  speak  —  I 
cannot.' 

His  voice  shook  with  tears ;  but  presently  he  added  in  a 
low  voice,  '  One  thing  I  would  ask.  Among  such  faces,  what 
can  be  the  face  of  Judas  ? ' 

The  master,  without  answering,  handed  him  a  paper  sketch. 
It  showed  a  face  terrible  but  not  repulsive,  not  wicked  even, 
but  big  with  infinite  grief,  with  the  profound  bitterness  of 
great  knowledge. 

Giovanni  compared  it  with  that  of  St.  John.  'Yes,' he 
exclaimed  awestruck;  'it  is  he!  He  of  whom  it  is  said, 
Satan  entered  into  him  ;  who  perhaps  knew  more  than  any 
of  them,  but  who  would  not  accept  the  cry,  that  '  all  may 
be  one ! '  because  he  desired  to  be  an  one  by  himself.' 

He  was  interrupted  by  Cesare  da  Sesto,  who  burst  into  the 
refectory,  followed  by  a  man  in  the  court  livery. 

'  At  last !  at  last ! '  he  cried ;  '  Master,  we  have  sought  you 
in  every  place !  The  duchess  requires  you— on  a  grave 
matter.' 

'  Your  Worship  will  have  the  kindness  to  come  with  me  to 
the  palace,'  said  the  servant. 

'What  is  the  cause?' 

'  A  disaster,  Messer  Leonardo.  The  water  pipes  do  not 
work ;  and  this  morning  when  Her  Excellence  was  pleased 
to  get  into  her  bath,  and  her  woman  had  gone  to  the  adjoin- 
ing chamber  for  linen,  the  tap  broke,  so  that  Her  Excellence 
was  nearly  scalded.  She  is  pleased  to  be  very  wroth ;  and 
Messer  Ambrogio  Ferrari,  the  steward,  complains  greatly, 
and  saith  he  hath  more  than  once  warned  your  Worship 
about  these  pipes.' 

'  What  puerility  is  this  ? '  replied  Leonardo ;  '  can  you  not 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  49 

see  I  am  at  work  ?     Go  to  Zoroastro.     In   half  an  hour  he 
will  repair  everything.' 

*  Messere,  I  was  told  not  to  return  without  your  Wor- 
ship.' 

Leonardo,  however,,  went  back  to  his  picture.  But  when 
his  eye  fell  on  the  blank  space  destined  for  the  Saviour's 
head,  his  brows  knit  with  discouragement,  and,  realising  fresh 
failure,  he  descended  from  the  easel. 

'Well,  we  will  go.  You,  Giovanni,  come  for  me  to  the 
outer  courtyard  of  the  castle,  Cesare  will  show  you  the  way ; 
I  will  expect  you  by  the  Cavallo? 

By  this  name  he  spoke  of  his  great  equestrian  statue  of 
Francesco  Sforza. 

And  to  Giovanni's  amazement,  without  another  glance  at 
the  Cenacolo,  the  Master  followed  the  scullion  to  mend  the 
pipes  of  the  ducal  bath. 

'  So  you  can't  take  your  eyes  off  the  thing  ?  '  said  Cesare 
mockingly  to  Boltraffio;  'certes,  'tis  a  wonderful  work;  at 
least  until  one  sees  through  it.' 

1  What  is  your  meaning  ? ' 

c  Ask  me  not.  I  won't  spoil  your  faith.  Mayhap  in  the 
end  you  will  discover  for  yourself.     Meanwhile,  admire.' 

1  Cesare,  tell  me  your  thought.' 

*  Good,  then.  Only  be  not  wroth  at  the  truth.  I  know 
all  you  will  find  to  say  and  I  will  not  dispute  with  you.  In 
good  sooth,  it  is  wonderful.  No  master  hath  so  much 
anatomy,  such  perspective,  such  science  of  chiaroscuro. 
I  challenge  it  not.  All  is  direct  from  nature,  the  face 
wrinkles,  the  folds  in  the  cloth,  everything.  But  the  living 
spirit,  where  is  that?  the  God  is  absent;  and  will  absent 
Himself  for  ever.  At  bottom,  in  the  soul,  all  is  ice  and 
death !  Look,  Giovanni !  use  your  eyes !  See  the  geo- 
metrical regularity;  four  triangles,  two  contemplative,  two 
active ;  and  their  centre  is  Christ.  Look  narrowly.  On 
the  right  you  have  perfect  goodness  in  John,  perfect  badness 
in  Judas,  the  dividing  of  good  and  evil  (that  is,  justice) 
in  Peter.  Beside  them  the  active  triad,  Andrew,  James,  and 
Bartholomew.  Now  turn  to  the  left ;  another  contem- 
plative triangle;  the  love  of  Philip,  the  faith  of  James,  the 
wisdom  of  Thomas ;  then  again,  activity  in  another  triad. 
Not  inspiration,  Giovanni,  but  geometry ;  mathematics  in  the 
seat  of  beauty.     All  calculated,  reasoned  ad  nauseam,  tested 

D 


50  THE  FORERUNNER 

to  repulsion,  weighed  in  the  balance,  measured  by  the  com- 
passes.    Under  the  holy  things — contempt.' 

*  Cesare,  Cesare ! '  cried  Giovanni  with  gentle  reproof.  How 
little  you  know  the  Master !     Why  do  you  hate  him  ? ' 

'  And  you  think  perchance  you  know  him,  and  therefore 
you  love  him?'  returned  Cesare  quickly,  turning  to  his  com- 
panion with  a  bitter  smile.  In  his  eyes  blazed  such  unex- 
tinguishable  malice  that  Giovanni  instinctively  averted  his 
own. 

'  You  are  unjust,  Cesare,'  he  resumed  after  a  pause ;  '  the 
picture  is  incomplete ;  the  Christ  is  not  yet  there.' 

'And  will  He  be  there?  Do  you  expect  it?  Well,  we 
shall  see.  Only  mark  you  my  words.  I  say  Messer  Leonardo 
will  never  finish  the  Cenacolo;  never  paint  the  Judas,  nor  the 
Christ !  For,  see  you,  my  friend,  one  may  do  much  by 
mathematics  and  by  experiments  in  science ;  but  not  every- 
thing. More  is  needed.  There  is  a  limit  which  he,  with  all 
his  learning,  can  never  pass.' 

They  left  the  monastery  and  moved  towards  the  Castello  di 
Porta  Giovia.     Boltrafrlo  was  long  silent,  then  he  said : — 

'  In  one  point,  Cesare,  you  certainly  are  in  error.  The 
Judas  exists  already ;  I  have  seen  it.' 

'When?    Where?' 

'Just  now — in  the  convent.     He  showed  me  the  drawing.' 

'You?' 

Cesare  stared,  then  said  slowly,  and  as  if  by  an  effort. 

1  How  was  it  ?     Good  ? ' 

Giovanni  nodded ;  and  Cesare  after  this  kept  silence. 


VIII 

Arrived  at  the  castle  gates,  they  crossed  the  drawbridge  to 
the  Torre  del  Filarete,  which  looked  to  the  south,  and  was 
deeply  moated.  Here  even  at  noon  it  was  dark ;  and  the  air 
was  laden  with  an  undefinable  odour  of  barracks — the  smell 
of  stables,  straw,  and  sour  bread.  Under  the  resounding 
arches  came  echoes  of  the  laughter  and  curses  of  the  hired 
foreign  soldiery. 

Cesare  had  the  pass;  but  Giovanni  was  regarded  with 
mistrust,  and  his  name  entered  in  the  guard-book.  Crossing 
a  second  drawbridge,  where  they  submitted  to  a  second  ex- 
amination, they  reached  the  deserted  inner  court  of  the  castle 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  51 

called  the  Piazza  d'Arme.  Straight  before  them  was  the  stern 
Torre  di  Bona ;  to  the  right,  the  entrance  to  the  Corte  Ducale; 
to  the  left,  the  RoGchetta,  a  veritable  eagle's  nest,  the  part  of 
the  castle  most  difficult-  of  access.  In  the  centre  of  the  square, 
surrounded  by  ill-made  wooden  fences,  which  were  already 
moss-grown  and  weather-stained,  rose  an  unfinished  colossal 
equestrian  statue  in  greenish  clay;  II  Caval/o,  the  bold  achieve- 
ment of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  no  less  than  twenty  braccia  in 
altitude.  The  tremendous  horse,  dark  against  the  watery  sky, 
was  rearing ;  a  fallen  warrior  was  beneath  his  hoofs ;  on  his 
back,  Francesco  Sforza,  the  great  cofidottiere^  half-soldier,  half 
brigand,  wholly  adventurer,  who  had  served  with  his  sword  and 
his  blood  for  money.  The  son  of  a  peasant,  strong  as  a  lion, 
astute  as  a  fox,  he  attained  by  sagacity,  by  crime,  and  by  great 
exploits,  the  summit  of  power,  and  died  on  the  throne  of  the 
Dukes  of  Milan.  Pale  sunshine  fell  full  on  the  colossal  figure, 
and  in  the  grossness  of  the  double  chin,  in  the  rapacity  of 
the  fierce  and  vigilant  eye,  Giovanni  saw  the  calm  of  the 
gorged  wild  beast.  Leonardo  himself  had  inscribed  the  clay 
with  this  distich  : — 

*  Expectant  animi  molemque  futuram 
Suscipiunt ;  fluat  aes ;  vox  erit ;  Ecce  Deus.' 

The  last  two  words  were  astounding  to  Giovanni.  '  Behold 
the  god.' 

'A god?'  he  repeated,  looking  at  the  colossal  clay,  at  the 
victim  trampled  by  the  violent  conqueror.  He  remembered 
the  quiet  convent  refectory  of  ■  Our  Lady  of  Grace,'  the  hills 
of  Zion,  the  celestial  beauty  of  St.  John,  the  stillness  of  the 
Last  Supper :  and  that  God,  of  whom  it  was  said,  '  Behold 
the  Man !  ■ 

At  this  moment  Leonardo  himself  appeared. 

'  Let  us  hurry,'  he  said  ;  '  it  seems  that  the  kitchen  chim- 
neys are  smoking ;  and  if  we  do  not  flee  they  will  be  calling 
me  back  to  mend  them.' 

Giovanni  could  not  answer  him ;  he  stood  downcast  and 
pallid. 

•  Master,'  he  said  presently,  '  I  crave  your  pardon ;  but  I 
have  thought  long,  and  still  I  comprehend  not  how  you  were 
able  to  create  the  Cavallo  and  the  Cenacolo  at  one  and  the 
same  time.' 

Leonardo  looked  at  his  disciple  in  quiet  surprise. 


52  THE  FORERUNNER 

'Why  not?' 

1  Oh,  Messer  Leonardo  !  do  you  not  feel  yourself  that  they 
are  impossible  together  ? ' 

*  No,  Giovanni.  To  my  thinking,  one  helps  out  the  other. 
My  best  ideas  for  the  Cenacolo  come  to  me  when  I  am  work- 
ing at  the  Colossus ;  and  in  that  convent  refectory  yonder, 
I  love  to  think  upon  this  monument  of  Duke  Francesco. 
The  works  are  twins.  I  began  them  together,  and  together  I 
shall  finish  them.' 

■  Together  !  Christ,  and  this  man  ?  It  is  impossible  ! ' 
And  ignorant  how  to  express  his  thought,  yet  feeling  his  heart 
on  fire,  he  repeated  passionately,  '  It  is  impossible ! ' 

c  And  why  V  asked  the  master  with  his  quiet  smile. 

Giovanni  would  have  tried  to  reply;  but  meeting  those 
calm  uncomprehending  eyes,  the  words  died  upon  his  lips, 
for  Leonardo  would  not  have  understood  them.  So  he  held 
his  peace  and  thought  within  himself. 

'Strange  !  An  hour  ago,  looking  at  his  picture,  I  fancied 
that  I  knew  him.  And  now  I  find  I  do  not  know  him  at  all. 
Of  which  of  those  twain  does  he  say  in  his  heart :  '  Behold 
the  god?' 

IX 

That  night  when  all  others  slept,  Giovanni,  tormented  by 
insomnia,  rose  and  went  into  the  court,  where  was  a  stone 
bench  under  a  tent  of  vine  branches.  The  court  was  square, 
and  in  its  centre  was  a  well ;  behind  the  bench  was  the  wall  of 
the  house,  opposite  the  stable ;  to  the  left  a  stone  wall  with  a 
wicket-gate  which  opened  on  the  street  of  the  Porta  Vercellina; 
to  the  right  the  wall  of  a  little  garden  and  a  door  always 
locked  and  leading  to  a  separate  building.  Here  Astro  alone 
was  allowed  ingress,  and  here  Leonardo  was  wont  to  work 
in  complete  seclusion. 

The  night  was  still  and  warm,  with  a  thick  mist,  penetrated 
by  dim  moonlight.  A  low  knock  sounded  on  the  gate  which 
opened  on  the  road ;  the  shutter  of  one  of  the  lower  windows 
was  opened,  and  a  man  peered  out,  asking  : — 

'  Monna  Cassandra  ? ' 

"Tisl.     Open!' 

Astro  came  from  the  house  and  let  her  in ;  a  girl  clad  in 
white,  which  the  moonlight  and  the  mist  changed  to  a  strange 


„ 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  53 

green.  They  parleyed  together  at  the  gate;  then  passed 
Giovanni  without  seeing  him,  where  he  sat  in  the  deep 
shadow  of  the  vine  branches. 

The  girl  seated  herself  on  the  low  wall  of  the  well.  Her 
face  was  an  odd  one,  immobile  and  placid,  like  the  faces  of 
old  statues.  She  had  a  low  forehead,  straight  black  eye- 
brows, too  small  a  chin,  and  eyes  of  transparent  amber. 
But  what  chiefly  struck  Giovanni  was  her  hair,  so  light,  so 
soft,  so  crisp,  as  if  possessed  of  life.  Like  the  Medusa's 
aureole  of  serpents,  its  blackness  framed  her  face,  making 
its  paleness  paler,  its  lips  more  scarlet,  its  amber  eyes  more 
translucent. 

1  Then  you  too,  Astro,  have  heard  speak  of  Frate  Angelo  ?' 
said  the  girl. 

'Yes,  Monna  Cassandra.  They  say  the  Pope  hath  sent 
him  to  extirpate  heresy  and  black  magic.  And  I  tell  you, 
merely  to  hear  what  is  told  of  the  Fathers  Inquisitors  raises 
the  hair  of  your  skin  !  God  keep  us  from  their  claws  ! 
Monna  Cassandra,  be  discreet ;  and,  above  all,  warn  your 
aunt.' 

1 A  pretty  aunt  she  is  to  me  ! ' 

'  It  matters  not.  Warn  that  Monna  Sidonia  with  whom 
you  live.' 

'Then,  blacksmith,  you  suppose  us  witches?' 

'  I  suppose  nothing.  Messer  Leonardo  hath  taught  me 
there  is  no  witchcraft ;  nor  can  be  none,  by  the  law  of  nature. 
Messer  Leonardo  knows  everything  and  believes  in  nothing.' 

'  Believes  in  nothing  ?     Not  in  the  devil?   Not  in  God?' 

'Jest  not !    Messer  Leonardo  is  a  saint.' 

'  And  your  flying-machine?  '  she  said  contemptuously ;  '  is 
it  ready  ? ' 

The  smith  waved  his  hand  despairingly. 

'  Ready  ? '     We  are  going  to  make  it  all  over  again  ! ' 

'Astro!  Astro!  You  credit  this  nonsense?  These 
machines  are  dust  cast  into  the  eyes.  I  wager  Messer 
Leonardo  has  flown  many  a  time  ere  now.' 

'Flown?    How?' 

'  He  flies — as  I  fly.' 

He  surveyed  her  thoughtfully. 

'  You  fly  in  dreams,  Monna  Cassandra.' 

'You  think  that  is  it?  Nay,  others  have  seen  me  fly. 
Perhaps  you  know  not  the  tale  ? ' 


54  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  smith  scratched  his  head  hesitatingly. 

1  But  I  forget,'  she  said  mockingly ;  '  you  are  all  learned 
folk  here,  who  believe  not  in  miracles,  but  in  mechanics.' 

1  S'death  !    Those  same  mechanics  are   a   weight   on  my 

neck.     Did  you  but  know '    He  spread  out  his  hands 

appealingly,  and  continued  :  ■  Monna  Cassandra ;  you  know 
my  faithfulness.  Nor  is  there  temptation  to  chatter,  lest  Frate 
Angelo  play  eavesdropper.  Tell  me,  then,  in  all  secrecy,  tell 
me  of  your  charity  with  all  the  particulars ' 

'  Tell  you  what  ? ' 

1  How  you  fly.' 

' Not  that,  my  friend ;  no.  If  you  know  too  much  you 
will  age  too  soon.' 

She  paused  ;  then  said  softly,  after  a  long  look  straight  into 
his  eyes.     'What  avails  it  to  talk?    You  must  act.' 

'  What  is  required?  '  asked  Astro  in  trembling  tones,  and 
turning  pale. 

'  You  must  know  a  certain  word,  and  you  must  anoint  your 
skin  with  a  certain  unguent.' 

'  Have  you  this  unguent  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

1  And  you  know  the  word?' 

She  nodded. 

1  And  then  one  can  fly  ? ' 

'Try.  You  will  find  my  method  simpler  than  your 
mechanics.' 

The  single  eye  of  the  smith  blazed  with  the  madness  of 
desire. 

'  Monna  Cassandra,  give  me  your  unguent.' 

She  suppressed  a  laugh. 

'  You  are  a  simpleton,  Astro.  Five  minutes  ago  you  called 
magic  foolery ;  now,  it  seems,  you  believe  in  it.' 

Astro  hung  his  head,  convicted,  but  unrepentant. 

'  I  wish  to  fly.  I  care  little  if  I  attain  by  mechanics  or  by 
miracles.     What  I  can  endure  no  longer  is  waiting.' 

The  girl  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

'  I  see,  I  see.  Truly,  I  pity  you.  It  is  clear  your  brain 
will  crack  if  you  don't  get  to  your  flying.  Good,  then  ;  I  will 
give  you  the  drug  and  I  will  teach  you  the  word.  But  you 
likewise,  Astro,  you  must  do  what  I  ask  of  you.' 

'  I  will,  Monna  Cassandra.  I  will  do  anything.  Speak.' 
The  girl  pointed  to  the  wet  roof  beyond  the  garden  wall. 


ECCE  DEUS— ECCE  HOMO— 1494  55 

'  Let  me  enter  there.' 

But  Astro  frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

'  Nay.     I  will  do  whatever  you  ask,  saving  only  that.' 

*  And  why  not  that?5 

*  I  have  promised  my  master  to  let  none  in.' 
'  But  you  go  thither  ? ' 

'Yea.'  < 

'  What  is  there  within?' 

'No  mystery,  Monna  Cassandra;  nothing  of  moment. 
Machines,  appliances,  books,  manuscripts.  Certain  strange 
plants,  beasts,  creeping  things.  Travellers  bring  them  from 
distant  lands.    And  there  is  one  tree  which  has  been  poisoned.' 

'What?  poisoned?' 

'  Ay.  He  has  it  for  experiments ;  that  he  may  know  the 
effect  poison  has  upon  plants.' 

*  Good  Astro,  tell  me  all  you  know  of  that  tree.' 

*  There  is  naught  to  tell.  Early  in  the  spring  season  he 
bored  him  a  hole  in  its  trunk,  to  the  very  core ;  and  with  a 
long  thin  needle  he  squirted  in  some  venom.' 

'  What  strange  experiments !  And  of  what  sort  is  the 
tree?' 

'  A  peach-tree.' 

'  What  followed  ?     Was  the  fruit  also  poisoned  ? ' 

'  It  will  be  so  when  ripe.' 

1  Can  you  see  in  the  peaches  that  they  are  poisoned  ? ' 

1  No ;  and  that  is  why  he  permits  no  entry,  lest  some  one 
might  eat  the  fruit  and  die.' 

'Have  you  the  key?' 

'Ay.' 

'  Good  Astro,  give  it  to  me  ! ' 

'  Monna  Cassandra  !     Have  I  not  sworn  to  him  ? ' 

'  Give  me  the  key  ;  and  I  will  compass  it  that  to-night  you 
shall  fly — this  very  night.     See,  this  is  the  drug.' 

She  drew  from  her  bosom  a  phial  which  contained  a  dark 
liquid;  and  putting  her  face  close  to  his,  she  whispered 
wheedlingly,  'What  is  it  you  fear,  simpleton?  You  say  there 
are  no  mysteries.  Well,  then,  let  us  go  and  make  sure.  The 
key,  Astro,  the  key  ! ' 

'  No,'  he  replied,  '  I  will  not  let  you  enter ;  and  I  care 
nothing  for  your  secret.     Leave  me.' 

'Coward!'  cried  the  girl,  fine  scorn  on  her  face;  'it  is 
possible  for  you  to  know  the  secret,  and  you  dare  not  hear 


$6  THE  FORERUNNER 

it !  Now  I  see  plainly  he  is  a  sorcerer,  and  lie  tricks  you  as 
he  would  trick  an  infant ! ' 

But  neither  could  scorn  move  him ;  he  turned  away  his 
head,  listening  sullenly.     Then  Cassandra  drew  nearer  again. 

1  Well,  Astro,  so  be  it.  I  will  not  enter.  Only  do  you  set 
the  door  ajar  and  let  me  peep ' 

'You  will  not  go  in?' 

1  No ;  only  open  and  let  me  just  look.' 

At  this  he  drew  forth  the  key  and  unlocked  the  door. 

Giovanni,  rising  softly  and  drawing  nearer,  saw  a  common 
peach-tree  at  the  far  end  of  the  little  walled  garden ;  under 
the  dim  green  moonlight  the  tree  seemed  weird  and  ill- 
omened. 

Standing  in  the  doorway,  the  girl  looked  about  her  with  the 
wide  eyes  of  eager  curiosity.  Then  she  took  a  step  forward. 
The  smith  held  her  back ;  but  she  freed  herself  and  slipped 
through  his  hands  like  a  snake.  He  again  pushed  her  out, 
almost  overthrowing  her.  But  she  recovered  her  balance 
easily,  and  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes.  Her  face  pale, 
livid,  and  contracted  with  rage,  was  terrifying;  at  that 
moment  she  truly  seemed  a  witch. 

The  smith  clapped  to  the  door,  and  without  further  speech 
retreated  to  the  house,  she  following  him  with  her  golden 
eyes.  Presently  she  strode  hastily  past  Giovanni,  and  through 
the  wicket  into  the  road  of  the  Porta  Vercellina.  Once  more 
silence  reigned,  and  the  mist  thickened ;  all  things  vanished 
in  it. 

Giovanni,  left  alone,  closed  his  eyes  painfully.  Before  him 
rose  as  in  a  vision  the  awful  tree,  the  heavy  drops  on  its 
damp  leaves,  its  poisoned  fruits,  pallidly  illuminated.  And 
he  thought  of  the  words : — 

'  Of  every  tree  of  the  garden  thou  mayest  freely  eat.  But 
of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  thou  shalt 
not  eat.  For  in  the  day  that  thou  eatest  thereof  thou  shalt 
surely  die.7 


BOOK    III 

THE   POISONED    FRUITS 1 494 

1  And  the  Serpent  said  unto  the  woman,  Ye  shall  not  surely  die.  For 
God  doth  know  that  in  the  day  ye  eat  thereof,  then  your  eyes  shall  be 
opened,  and  ye  shall  be  as  gods,  knowing  good  and  evil. — Gen.  iii. 
4  and  5. 

'  Faciendo  un  bucho  con  un  succhiello  dentro  un  albusciello,  a  chaccian- 
dovi  arsenicho  e  risalgallo  e  sollimato  stemperati  con  acqua  arzente,  a 
forza  di  fare  e  sua  frutti  velenosi. ' — Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(Having  pierced  the  heart  of  a  young  tree,  inject  arsenic,  a  reagent 
and  corrosive  sublimate,  diluted  with  alcohol,  so  as  to  envenom  even 
the  fruit.) 

I 

Beatrice,  the  duchess,  used  every  Friday  to  bathe  her 
hair,  and  then  tincture  it  with  gold,  after  which  she  dried 
it  in  the  sunshine.  For  her  convenience  she  had  caused 
balustraded  ■  altanc?  or  platforms,  to  be  erected  on  the  roof 
of  the  splendid  ducal  villa  of  the  Sforzesca,  which  stood  on 
the  right  bank  of  the  Ticino,  near  the  fortress  of  Vigevano, 
among  the  fat  pastures  and  the  ever  green  water-side  meadows 
of  the  province  of  Lomellina.  Here,  then,  she  sat,  patiently 
supporting  the  blazing  heat  at  an  hour  when  even  husband- 
men and  their  oxen  were  wont  to  creep  into  the  shadow. 
She  wore  a  schiavinetta — a  loose  white  silk  wrapper  without 
sleeves.  On  her  head  was  a  kind  of  straw  sunshade,  or  hat, 
from  the  opening  in  the  top  of  which  flowed  out  the  broad 
masses  of  her  gilded  and  rippling  hair.  An  olive-skinned 
Circassian  slave  was  moistening  the  hair  with  a  sponge,  fixed 
on  the  point  of  a  spindle;  and  a  Tartar,  slit-eyed  and  crooked, 

was  combing  it  with  an  ivory  comb. 

57 


58  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  dye  was  made  in  May  of  the  roots  of  walnut  trees, 
saffron,  ox-gall,  swallows'  lime,  ambergris,  bears'  claws,  and 
the  fat  of  lizards.  Close  beside  the  duchess,  and  watched 
by  herself,  an  infusion  of  musk  roses  and  precious  spices  was 
simmering  in  a  long-necked  retort,  upon  a  tripod  over  an 
invisible  flame. 

Both  the  waiting-maids  were  bathed  in  perspiration ;  even 
the  duchess's  lap-dog  was  ill  at  ease  on  this  burning  altana, 
and,  panting  and  lolling  out  his  tongue,  gazed  reproachfully  at 
his  mistress,  nor  responded  as  usual  to  the  provocation  of  the 
monkey.  The  latter  was  luxuriating  in  the  heat,  however, 
like  the  negro  page,  who  held  the  gemmed  and  jewelled 
mother-o'-pearl  mirror. 

Though  the  Lady  Beatrice  constantly  endeavoured  to 
compose  countenance  and  deportment  to  the  severity  be- 
coming her  rank,  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  she  was  nine- 
teen, had  been  married  three  years,  and  had  borne  two 
children.  In  the  girlish  roundness  of  her  dark  cheek,  in 
the  childish  dimple,  the  slender  throat,  the  chin  too  plump ; 
in  the  full  lips  tightly  compressed  as  if  always  tempted  to 
pout ;  in  the  slight  shoulders  and  flat  bosom  ;  in  the  abrupt 
boyish  movements,  she  appeared  still  a  schoolgirl,  spoiled, 
wilful,  restless  and  even  selfish.  Yet  prudence  and  intelli- 
gence shone  from  the  steady,  dark  eyes  j  and  the  Venetian 
ambassador,  Marino  Sanuto,  most  astute  of  statesmen,  had 
written  in  his  private  letters  to  his  government  that  this  girl 
was  hard  as  flint,  and  gave  him  far  more  trouble  than  did 
her  husband,  II  Moro ;  who  indeed  showed  his  wisdom  by 
obeying  her  about  everything. 

The  dog  barked  angrily,  and  up  the  winding  stair  which 
led  to  the  altana  came  laboriously  an  old  woman  habited 
like  a  widow.  In  one  hand  she  held  a  crutch,  in  the  other 
a  rosary;  the  wrinkles  in  her  face  might  have  given  her  a 
reverend  aspect,  had  not  the  withered  mouth  smiled  hypo- 
critically, and  the  eyes  sparkled  with  audacious  cunning. 

1  Ugh,  ugh !  How  detestable  is  old  age !  I  could  hardly 
drag  myself  hither.  May  the  Lord  preserve  youth  and  health 
to  your  Excellency,'  said  the  old  woman,  kissing  the  hem  of 
the  schiavi?ietta. 

1  Well,  Monna  Sidonia,  is  it  ready  ? ' 

The  crone  drew  from  her  pouch  a  carefully  wrapped, 
closely-stoppered  phial,  containing  a  turbid,  whitish  liquid, 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  59 

— the  milk  of  a  red  goat  and  of  an  ass,  distilled  with  wild 
anise,  asparagus,  and  white  lilies. 

'  In  good  sooth,  her  Excellency  should  keep  it  two  little 
days  more  in  good  horse  litter.  Yet  it  can  be  used  at  once  if 
needful;  only  first  strain  it  through  a  filter.  Wet  with  it 
crumbs  of  stale  bread,  and  then  be  pleased  to  rub  your 
noble  countenance  for  such  a  period  as  would  take  the 
reciting  of  three  credos.  In  five  weeks'  time  all  swarthiness 
will  be  removed,  and  pimples  beside.' 

c  Hearken,  old  woman,'  said  Beatrice ;  '  in  this  lotion  there 
are  again,  mayhap,  some  of  the  abominable  things  used  in 
black  magic, — snakes'  fat,  perchance,  or  plovers'  blood;  or 
powdered  lizards,  fried  in  a  frying-pan ;  such  as  there  were 
in  that  unguent  you  gave  me  for  withering  the  hair  in  my 
cheek-moles.     If  it  be  so,  tell  me  at  once.' 

1  Your  Excellency  should  not  lend  her  ear  to  the  calumnies 
of  the  malignant.  I  work  honestly,  as  my  conscience  dic- 
tates; but  no  one  can  do  without  dirt  sometimes.  The 
magnificent  Madonna  Angelica,  for  example,  all  last  year 
washed  her  head  with  dogs'  urine,  so  as  to  preserve  her 
hair,  which  was  falling  out;  and  thanked  God  and  me  it 
cured  her.'  Then,  bending  down  to  the  duchess's  ear,  she 
told  the  latest  gossip  : — how  the  young  wife  of  the  Master  of 
the  Guild  of  the  Salters,  the  lovely  Madonna  Filiberta  was 
deceiving  her  husband  with  a  Spanish  cavalier,  and  diverting 
herself  hugely. 

1  And  doubtless,'  said  Beatrice,  jestingly  threatening  with 
her  finger,  '  'twas  you  who  brought  the  poor  thing  to  it,  you 
old  bawd ! ' 

1  Does  your  Excellency  call  her  poor  ?  Nay,  she  sings  me 
her  thanks  every  hour.  Now  she  knows  the  difference 
between  the  kiss  of  a  spouse  and  the  kiss  of  a  lover.' 

*  But  the  sin  ?     Doth  not  her  conscience  bite  her  ? ' 

'Her  conscience?  Madam,  I  hold  the  sin  of  love  the 
work  of  nature.  And  a  few  drops  of  holy  water  can  wash  the 
sin  away.  Madonna  Filiberta  is  but  giving  her  spouse  a 
Roland  for  his  Oliver.' 

1  Is  your  meaning  that  likewise  the  husband ' 

'  Say  it  for  certain,  I  do  not — but  sure  it  is  that  all  married 
men  harp  on  one  string.  There  is  none  of  them  but  would 
sooner  have  a  single  hand  than  a  single  wife.' 

The   duchess   laughed.       'Ah,    Monna    Sidonia,    Monna 


60  THE  FORERUNNER 

Sidonia,  there  's  no  tripping  you  !     But  where  do  you  learn 
all  these  things  ? ' 

*  Believe  the  word  of  an  old  woman ;  what  I  tell  you  is 
gospel  truth.  And  in  matters  of  conscience  I  know  the 
difference  between  a  beam  and  a  mote.  All  fruit  gets  ripe 
in  its  season.  If  she  have  not  her  fill  of  love  when  she  be 
young,  a  woman  will  fall  into  such  longing  when  she  is  old, 
that  she  will  go  straight  into  the  claws  of  the  devil.' 

1  You  preach  like  a  doctor  of  theology.' 

'  Nay,  I  am  unlearned ;  but  I  speak  from  my  heart,  and  I 
tell  your  Excellency  that  youth  comes  but  once  in  life ;  for 
what  the  devil — Lord  forgive  me ! — is  the  use  of  us  women 
when  we  are  old  ?  Perhaps  to  throw  charcoal  on  the  brazier, 
and  to  count  the  pots  and  the  pans  in  the  kitchen.  Not 
for  nothing  says  the  proverb. 

"  La  giovane  mangia,  la  vecchia  s'ingozza."1 

Beauty  without  love  is  like  matins  without  a  paternoster.' 
1  What !  say  that  over  again  ! '  laughed  the  duchess. 
The  old  woman,  thinking  she  had  now  trifled  enough,  again 
bent  to  the  lady's  ear  and  whispered.  Beatrice  ceased  to 
laugh,  her  face  darkened.  She  dismissed  her  attendants, 
excepting  the  little  blackamoor  who  had  no  Italian.  Around 
them  was  only  the  still  and  glowing  air,  which  seemed  to  have 
paled  under  the  fury  of  the  heat. 

*  Folly  ! '  answered  the  duchess ;  '  such  chattering  is  of  no 
moment.' 

1  Signora,  I  saw  with  my  eyes,  I  heard  with  my  ears.  Others 
will  tell  you  the  like.' 

*  Were  there  many  persons  ? ' 

1  Ten  thousand.  The  piazza  before  the  Castle  of  Pavia 
was  thronged.' 

*  What  heard  you  ? ' 

1  When  Madonna  Isabella  came  forth  bearing  the  little 
Francesco  there  was  a  beating  of  hands,  a  waving  of  caps, 
and  a  many  who  shed  tears.  "  Viva  Isabella  of  Aragon," 
they  cried,  "  Viva  Gian  Galeazzo  and  his  heir,  our  true  and 
legitimate  lord !     Death  to  the  usurpers  of  his  throne ! " ' 

Beatrice  frowned.     '  Those  were  the  very  words  ? ' 

*  Ay ;  but  there  was  worse.' 

1  Ingozzare,  to  swallow  ;  also,  to  bear  an  affront  meekly. 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  61 

c  Speak — fear  nothing.' 

f  They  cried — my  tongue,  Signora  mia>  refuses — but  they 
cried  "  Death  to  the  Robbers  ! "' 

Beatrice  shivered ;  mastering  herself,  however,  she  asked 
calmly,  '  Was  there  more  ? ' 

1  Of  a  truth,  I  know  not  how  to  tell  it  to  your  Excellency.' 

I  Haste  thee,  I  would  know  all.' 

*  Believe  me,  madam,  they  said  that  the  most  noble  duke, 
Ludovico  il  Moro,  the  guardian  and  the  benefactor  of  Gian 
Galeazzo,  holds  his  nephew  in  the  fortress  of  Pavia,  and 
surrounds  him  with  assassins  and  spies.  Then  they  demanded 
that  the  duke  himself  should  come  out  to  them,  but  Madonna 
Isabella  answered  that  he  lay  sick.' 

And  again  Monna  Sidonia  whispered  in  the  duchess's  ear. 

'But  you  are  distraught,  you  old  hag,'  cried  the  lady. 
'Beware,  lest  I  have  you  thrown  from  this  roof,  so  that  not 
even  a  crow  can  get  your  bones  together.' 

The  threat  did  not  frighten  Monna  Sidonia.  Beatrice  also 
soon  calmed. 

I I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,'  she  said,  observing  the  crone 
furtively. 

'  As  you  please,  Excellency,'  answered  the  other,  shrugging 
lean  shoulders,  '  but  nothing  can  prevent  my  words  from 
being  true.  See  you,'  she  continued  insinuatingly,  '  you  make 
a  small  figure  of  wax,  and  you  put  a  swallow's  heart  in  at  the 
right  side,  at  the  left  its  liver,  then  you  pierce  it  with  a  needle, 
uttering  charms  the  while ;  and  he  will  die  of  a  slow  death, 
nor  is  there  doctor  who  can  save  him.' 

{ Silence  ! '  commanded  the  duchess. 

The  hag  again  devoutly  kissed  the  hem  of  the  schiavinetta. 
1  Your  Grace  is  my  sun.  I  love  you  overmuch,  'tis  my  worst 
fault.'  She  paused,  then  added, '  It  can  be  done  also  without 
witchcraft.' 

The  duchess  was  silent,  but  she  looked  at  the  woman 
curiously. 

1  As  I  came  by  the  palace  garden,'  resumed  Monna  Sidonia, 
dryly,  '  I  saw  the  gardener  collecting  fair  ripe  peaches  in  a 
basket,  a  present  doubtless  for  Messer  Gian  Galeazzo.'  Another 
pause,  and  she  continued,  c  And  likewise  in  the  garden  of 
Messer  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  the  Florentine,  there  are  fair  ripe 
peaches,  but  empoisoned/ 

*  Empoisoned?' 


62  THE  FORERUNNER 

1  Ay,  Monna  Cassandra,  my  niece,  saw '    And  again  she 

whispered. 

The  duchess  made  no  answer.  By  this  time  her  hair  was 
dry,  and  she  rose,  threw  off  the  schiavinetta,  and  descended  to 
the  apartment  known  as  the  wardrobe.  Here  were  three  huge 
presses ;  the  first,  large  as  that  in  some  great  sacristy,  contained 
the  eighty-four  dresses  which  she  had  found  time  to  acquire 
in  the  three  years  of  her  married  life;  some  so  stiff  with 
gold  and  jewels  that  they  could  stand  on  the  floor  by  them- 
selves, others  diaphanous,  imponderous  as  the  web  of  a 
spider.  In  the  second  press  were  riding-dresses,  and  all 
furniture  for  hawking.  In  the  third,  essences,  waters,  washes, 
unguents,  powders  for  the  teeth  of  white  coral  and 
seed-pearls,  innumerable  vases,  retorts,  rectified  alembics, 
crucibles,  in  short,  a  complete  laboratory  of  female  alchemy ; 
precious  cedar-wood  chests,  also,  covered  with  paintings 
and  embroidery.  From  one  of  these  the  waiting-woman 
drew  forth  a  chemise  of  the  purest  whiteness.  The  room 
filled  with  a  scent  of  lavender,  oriental  iris,  and  dried 
Damascus  roses. 

While  she  dressed,  Beatrice  conversed  about  the  trimming 
of  a  new  gown  just  received  by  courier  from  her  sister, 
Isabella  d'Este,  the  Marchioness  of  Mantua.  The  sisters 
vied  with  each  other  in  elegance,  and  Beatrice  paid  a  court 
spy  to  keep  her  informed  of  all  the  novelties  in  the  Mantuan 
wardrobe. 

The  duchess  attired  herself  in  her  favourite  robe,  which, 
striped  with  gold  satin  and  green  velvet,  made  her  seem 
taller  than  she  was.  The  open-work  sleeves  were  tied  with 
bands  of  grey  silk,  slashed  in  the  French  mode,  and  showing 
the  white  puffings  of  the  undergarment.  Her  hair  was  plaited 
and  confined  in  a  gold  net  and  fine  gold  cord,  which  was 
clasped  by  a  scorpion  of  rubies. 

II 

She  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  so  long  a  time  at  the 
morning  toilette  that  the  duke  said  he  could  as  quickly  have 
fitted  a  merchant  ship  for  the  Indies.  On  this  occasion, 
however,  hearing  a  distant  sound  of  horns  and  the  baying  of 
hounds,  she  remembered  that  she  had  ordered  a  hunt, 
and    consequently    hurried.      When    dressed    she    paid    a 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  63 

passing  visit  to  the  chamber  of  her  dwarfs,  which,  in 
imitation  of  the  royal  play-room  of  Isabella  d'Este,  she 
nicknamed  '  the  Apartment  of  the  Giants.'  Here  everything 
was  arranged  for  a  population  of  pygmies :  chairs,  beds, 
furniture,  ladders,  even  a  chapel  with  a  toy  altar  at  which 
daily  service  was  read  by  a  learned  dwarf  named  Janachi  in 
archiepiscopal  robes  and  mitre.  Among  the  'giants'  was 
always  much  noise  :  laughter  and  weeping,  the  cries  of  various 
and  eerie  voices  from  hunchbacks,  apes,  parrots,  idiots, 
Tartars,  buffoons,  and  other  absurd  creatures,  with  whom 
the  youthful  duchess  sometimes  passed  whole  days  playing. 
To-day  she  looked  in  merely  to  inquire  after  the  health 
of  a  little  negro  named  Nannino,  lately  sent  from  Venice. 
His  skin  had  been  so  black,  that  in  the  words  of  his  former 
mistress,  'Nothing  more  exquisite  could  be  desired,'  but 
now  that  he  had  fallen  ill  it  had  become  apparent  that 
his  hue  was  not  entirely  natural,  for  a  coating,  black  and 
shining  like  lacquer,  was  peeling  off  and  causing  great 
chagrin  to  Beatrice.  However,  she  loved  him  in  spite  of 
his  growing  fairness,  and  hearing  with  distress  that  he  was 
likely  to  die,  she  gave  orders  to  have  him  christened  as 
quickly  as  possible. 

Descending  the  staircase,  she  met  Morgantina,  her  favourite 
female  fool,  who  was  young,  pretty,  and  so  whimsical 
that  she  'could  rouse  even  the  dead  to  laughter.'  She  stole 
and  hid  booty  like  a  magpie,  but  if  spoken  to  kindly 
would  confess  her  crimes,  and  was  simple  and  innocent  as  a 
child.  Sometimes,  however,  she  fell  into  fits  of  melancholy, 
wailing  for  her  lost  son  (who  had  never  existed).  This  morn- 
ing she  was  sitting  on  the  stair  hugging  her  knees  and  sobbing 
distractedly.     Beatrice  patted  her  on  the  head. 

'  Cease,  little  one,  cease,'  she  said,  '  be  good.' 

The  fool,  raising  her  childish  blue  eyes  streaming  with 
tears,  made  reply,  '  Oh !  oh !  oh !  they  have  taken  my  baby 
away  !     And,  O  Lord,  why  ?     What  harm  had  he  done  ? ' 

Without  another  word  the  duchess  went  down  into  the 
courtyard  where  the  huntsmen  were  awaiting  her. 

Ill 

Surrounded  by  outriders,  falconers,  beaters,  equerries, 
pages,    and    court-ladies,    Beatrice     sat    her    slender    dark 


64  THE  FORERUNNER 

bay  Arab — a  superb  creature  from  Gonzaga's  stables — 
like  an  expert  horseman.  '  A  true  queen  of  Amazons/ 
thought  her  husband  proudly,  as  he  came  out  of  the  pleached 
alley  before  the  palace  to  watch  his  consort's  start. 

Behind  the  duchess  rode  a  falconer  in  a  sumptuous  livery, 
embroidered  with  gold.  A  snow-white  Cyprus  falcon,  a  gift 
from  the  Sultan,  its  golden  hood  glittering  with  emeralds, 
and  little  bells  attached  to  its  claws,  sat  on  his  left  hand. 

Beatrice  was  in  lively  humour  ;  she  looked  at  her  husband 
with  a  smile,  but  when  he  said — 

*  Be  wary !  the  horse  is  mettlesome/  she  signed  to  her 
companions  and  darted  off  at  a  gallop,  first  along  the  road, 
then  over  the  open  fields,  across  ditches,  hillocks,  and 
trenches.  Her  retinue  fell  behind  ;  but  Beatrice  was  attended 
by  a  huge  wolf-hound,  and  by  her  side,  on  a  black  Castilian 
mare,  the  gayest  and  boldest  of  her  maidens,  rode  Madonna 
Lucrezia  Crivelli.  The  duke  was  by  no  means  indifferent 
to  this  lady,  and  as  he  watched  her  and  Beatrice  side  by  side 
in  this  mad  gallop,  it  would  have  perplexed  him  to  say  which 
of  the  two  he  admired  the  more.  However,  he  certainly 
experienced  an  invincible  anxiety  for  his  young  wife,  and  when 
she  leaped  a  deep  chasm,  he  closed  his  eyes  and  caught  his 
breath.  Often  he  had  reproved  her  fo*  these  follies,  but 
had  not  the  heart  to  forbid  them ;  deficient  himself  in  physical 
courage,  he  was  proud  of  the  daring  of  his  lady. 

The  party  descended  into  the  ravine  and  disappeared 
among  the  osier  thickets  of  the  low  banks  of  the  Ticino,  the 
breeding  place  of  ducks,  woodcock,  and  herons. 

Then  the  duke  returned  to  his  studiolo,  where  Messer 
Bartolomeo  Calco,  his  chief  secretary,  who  had  charge  of 
the  embassies  from  the  foreign  courts,  was  awaiting 
commands. 


IV 

Sitting  in  his  high-backed  armchair,  Ludovico  Sforza  softly 
stroked  his  smooth-shaved  chin  with  a  white  and  well-kept 
hand.  His  handsome  face  wore  that  expression  of  perfect 
candour  which  is  acquired  by  past  masters  in  political 
trickery;  his  high-bridged  aquiline  nose,  and  subtly  writhen 
lips   recalled   his   father   Francesco,   the   great   Condottkrc ; 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  65 

though  if  Francesco  were,  as  the  poets  said,  at  once  lion 
and  fox,  Ludovico  was  merely  fox.  He  was  attired  in  pale 
blue  silk,  puffed  and  embroidered ;  his  smooth  hair  covered 
ears  and  brow  like  a  wig,  and  a  gold  chain  dangled  on  his 
breast ;  in  word  and  gesture  he  was  uniformly  courteous  and 
urbane. 

*  Have  you  certain  intelligence,  Messer  Bartolomeo,  of  the 
departure  of  the  French  army  from  Lyons  ?  ' 

'  None,  your  Excellency.  Every  evening  they  say  "  to- 
morrow," every  morning  they  say  "to-night."  The  king 
wastes  himself  in  unwarlike  amusements.' 

*  Who  is  his  first  favourite  ?  ' 

*  Many  names  are  mentioned,  the  taste  of  his  Majesty  is 
variable.' 

*  Write  to  Count  Belgioioso  that  I  send  him  thirty — no — 
forty  or  fifty  thousand  ducats  to  spend  in  new  donatives,  let 
him  spare  nothing.  We  must  draw  this  king  out  of  Lyons 
by  golden  chains.  And,  Bartolomeo — but  repeat  this  not — 
it  were  well  to  send  his  Majesty  the  portraits  of  some  of  our 
fairest  ladies.     By  the  way,  is  the  letter  ready  ? ' 

'  It  is,  Signore.' 

'Show  it  to  me.' 

II  Moro  rubbed  his  white  hands  for  pleasure.  Every  time 
he  contemplated  his  huge  web  of  policy,  he  felt  an  agreeable 
stirring  at  heart ;  he  loved  the  dangerous  game.  Nor  did  he 
blame  himself  for  having  summoned  the  foreigners,  the 
northern  barbarians,  into  Italy;  his  enemies  had  forced  him 
to  this  extreme  measure,  chiefly  the  consort  of  Gian 
Galeazzo,  Isabella  of  Aragon,  who  openly  accused  him  of 
having  usurped  the  throne  of  his  nephew.  Yet  it  had  not 
been  till  her  father,  Alfonso  of  Naples,  had  intervened, 
threatening  war  and  dethronement,  that  Ludovico  had 
appealed  to  Charles  vin.  King  of  France. 

'Inscrutable  are  thy  ways,  O  Lord!'  thought  the  duke 
piously,  while  his  secretary  searched  for  the  letter  in  a  pile 
of  papers;  'the  salvation  of  my  kingdom,  of  Italy,  perhaps 
of  all  Europe,  is  in  the  hands  of  this  abortion  of  nature, 
this  libertine,  this  witless  boy,  whom  they  name  the  Most 
Christian  King  of  France  ;  before  whom  we,  the  heirs  of  the 
glory  of  the  Sforzas,  must  crouch,  and  creep,  and  play  the 
pander.  But  such  are  politics ;  he  who  hunts  with  wolves 
must  howl  with  them.' 


66  THE  FORERUNNER 

lie  read  over  the  letter,  which  seemed  to  him  sufficiently 
well  expressed. 

*  May  the  Lord  bless  thy  crusading  army,  O  most  Christian,' 
so  it  ran  ;  ■  the  gates  of  Ausonia  stand  open  to  thee.  Hesitate 
not  to  enter  in  triumph,  a  new  Hannibal !  The  peoples  of 
Italy  yearn  to  bow  beneath  thy  gentle  yoke,  O  anointed  of 
the  Most  High.     .     .     .' 

So  far  the  duke  had  read  when  a  humpbacked,  bald,  old 
man  looked  in  at  the  door.  Ludovico  smiled,  but  motioned 
to  him  to  wait.  The  head  vanished,  and  the  door  closed  again 
softly ;  but  the  secretary  saw  he  had  lost  his  master's  atten- 
tion. Messer  Bartolomeo  therefore  concluded  the  letter  and 
went  out.  The  duke  cautiously  stepped  to  the  door  on  the 
tips  of  his  toes,  and  called  softly — 

*  Bernardo !     Hist !     Bernardo  ! ' 

1  Here,  my  lord.'  And  the  court  poet,  Bernardo  Bellincioni, 
advanced  with  an  air  of  mystery  and  servility,  and  he  would 
have  fallen  on  his  knees  to  kiss  the  duke's  hand :  the  latter, 
however,  restrained  him. 

'Well?     Well?' 

'  All  is  right,  my  lord.' 

1  Is  she  brought  to  bed  ? ' 

*  Last  night  saw  her  released  from  her  burden.' 

'  Felicitously  ?     Or  shall  I  send  my  physician  ? ' 
'  Nay,  the  mother  is  doing  perfectly.' 
1  Glory  be  to  God  !     And  the  child  ? ' 

I  Perfect.' 

'Male  or  female?' 

1 A  man-child.  And  with  a  voice — !  Fair  hair  as  his 
mother's;  but  the  eyes  black,  burning  and  quick  like  those 
of  your  Grace.  The  princely  blood  shows  itself.  A  little 
Hercules !  Madonna  Cecilia  is  beside  herself  with  joy ; 
and  bade  me  inquire  the  name  that  will  please  your 
Excellency.' 

I I  have  considered  that.  We  will  call  him  Caesar.  What 
think  you  of  that  ?  f. 

*'Tis  a  fine  name;  well  mouthing,  and  ancient.  Cesare 
Sforza  !     A  name  meet  for  a  hero.' 

1  Well  now — about  the  husband  ? ' 

'The  illustrious  Count  Bergamini  is  good  and  courteous 
as  ever.* 

'  Admirable  man  ! '  cried  the  duke. 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  67 

'Your  Excellency  will  permit  me  to  pronounce  him  a  man 
of  rare  virtue.  Such  men  are  to  seek  nowadays.  If  the 
gout  permit,  he  would  desire  to  sup  with  your  Worship,  to 
testify  to  his  respect.' 

The  Countess  Cecilia  of  whom  they  spoke  had  long  been 
Ludovico's  mistress.  But  Beatrice,  his  bride,  daughter  of 
Ercole  d'Este,  Duke  of  Ferrara,  having  discovered  the  amour, 
became  furiously  jealous ;  and  by  threats  of  return  to  her 
paternal  home,  she  induced  her  lord  not  only  to  swear  better 
observance  of  his  conjugal  fidelity,  but  also  to  bestow  Cecilia 
in  wedlock.  The  husband  selected  by  Ludovico  was  the 
ancient  and  complaisant  Count  Bergamini. 

Bellincioni,  taking  a  small  paper  from  his  pocket,  pre- 
sented it  to  the  duke.  It  was  a  sonnet  in  honour  of  the 
newly  born  : — 

1  Thou  weepest,  Phoebus  !     Why  this  silver  rain  ? 

Because  this  day  upon  the  amazed  skies, 

Lo  !  I  have  seen  a  second  sun  arise, 

Before  whose  splendours  all  my  glories  wane.' 

*  This  is  a  tale  for  laughter  ! '     '  Nay,  for  pain, 
Truth  suffers  no  derision  from  the  wise.' 
'Then  tell  me  more,  and  still  my  loud  surprise, 
That  queries  whence  this  newer  king  shall  reign.' 

*  The  offspring  of  a  Moor,  he  makes  his  nest 
In  sweet  Cecilia's  arms — I  saw  h ''slight 

Shine  through  the  brooding  feathers  of  her  love  ; 
Now,  must  I  hide  me  in  the  cloudy  west, 
Eclipsed  by  one  more  radiant  and  more  bright, 
Who  shall  greater  God  than  Phoebus  prove. ' 

The  duke  bestowed  a  silver  piece  upon  the  poet. 

*  Bernardo,  let  it  not  slip  your  memory  that  Saturday  is 
the  birthday  of  the  duchess.' 

Bellincioni  hastily  fumbled  in  the  folds  of  his  courtly  but 
threadbare  raiment,  and  from  some  recess  therein  drew  forth 
a  whole  sheaf  of  tumbled  papers ;  and  among  grandiloquent 
odes  on  the  death  of  Madonna  Angelina's  falcon,  and  the 
disorder  of  Signor  Paravicino's  dappled  Hungarian  mare, 
found  the  verses  required. 

'Here  be  three  for  my  lord  to  choose  from,'  he  said.  'I 
vow  by  the  sacred  footprints  of  Pegasus,  you  will  be 
content.' 

In  those  times  sovereigns  used  their  court  poets  as  musical 
instruments,  to  serenade  not  their  mistresses  only,  but  also 


68  THE  FORERUNNER 

their  wives;  fashion  demanded  that  between  husband  and 
wife  at  least  platonic  love  should  be  assumed. 

The  duke  ran  through  the  verses  curiously;  though  he 
could  not  himself  string  two  lines  together.  In  the  first 
sonnet  he  found  two  lines  to  his  taste,  where  the  husband 
turns  to  his  wife  with  these  words : — 

1  Where  thy  light  spittle  falls,  flowers  gem  the  earth 
As  dews  of  spring  bring  violets  to  birth.' 

In  the  second  the  poet,  comparing  Madonna  Beatrice  with 
the  goddess  Diana,  asserted  that  boars  and  stags  felt  happi- 
ness in  falling  by  the  hand  of  so  fair  a  huntress.  The 
third  poem  pleased  II  Moro  better  than  all  the  rest.  It  was 
put  into  the  mouth  of  Dante,  who  prays  that  God  may  per- 
mit him  to  return  to  earth,  since  there  he  would  once  more 
find  his  Beatrice  in  the  person  of  the  Duchess  of  Milan. 

'  O  great  Jove ! '  cried  Alighieri,  ■  since  thou  hast  again 
given  her  to  the  earth  that  she  may  gladden  it  with  the  light 
of  love,  permit  me  also  to  be  with  her,  and  to  see  him 
whose  felicity  she  is,  and  whose  life  she  maketh  most 
proud  and  glad.' 

II  Moro  graciously  slapped  the  poet  on  his  back,  and  pro- 
mised him  some  scarlet  Florentine  cloth  at  ten  soldi  the 
braccio  for  his  winter  cloak.  Bernardo,  by  no  means  satisfied, 
made  many  bowings  and  bendings,  and  obtained  at  last  the 
promise  of  some  fox  skin  linings.  He  explained  that  his 
furs  had  become  by  long  wear  as  hairless  and  transparent 
as  vermicelli  drying  in  the  sun. 

*  Last  winter,'  he  continued,  I  was  so  cold  that  I  was 
ready  to  burn  not  only  my  own  staircase  but  the  wooden 
shoes  of  St.  Francis.' 

The  duke  laughed,  and  promised  him  firewood,  and 
Bellincioni  instantly  improvised  a  laudatory  quatrain. 

1  When  to  thy  servants  thou  dost  promise  bread 
Like  God  thou  giv'st  them  heavenly  manna, 
For  which  great  Phoebus  and  the  choir  of  nine 
Chant,  noble  Moor,  to  thee  Hosanna.' 

'You  seem  in  the  vein  to-day,  Bernardo.      Hearken,  I 
require  yet  another  poem.' 
'Erotic?' 
'Ay;  and  impassioned.' 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  69 

'  For  the  duchess  ?  ' 

'By  no  means.     But,  beware  you  speak  not  of  this  ! ' 

1  My  lord  is  pleased  to  insult  me.     Have  I  ever ' 

'  Not  yet.' 

' 1  am  dumb  as  any  fish,'  and  he  blinked  his  eyes  ob- 
sequiously and  mysteriously.  ■  Impassioned  ?  That  I  under- 
stand.    But  of  what  kind  ?     Grateful?     Imploring?' 

'The  last.' 

The  poet  drew  his  brows  together  with  an  air  of  grave 
solicitude. 

'Wedded?' 

'A  maid.' 

'  Good.     But  I  shall  need  the  name.' 

'  What  on  earth  matters  the  name  ? ' 

'Can't  do  imploring  without  the  name.' 

'  Madonna  Lucrezia. — You  have  nothing  ready  ? ' 

'Truly,  my  lord,  I  have;  but  something  fresh  would  please 
better.  Permit  me  the  seclusion  of  the  next  apartment; 
'twill  be  the  affair  of  a  moment.  Already  I  feel  the  rhymes 
crawling  in  my  head.' 

Just  then  a  page  announced  'Messer  Leonardo  da  Vinci,' 
and  Bellincioni  disappeared  through  one  door  as  Leonardo 
entered  at  the  other. 


After  the  opening  salutations  the  duke  and  the  artist 
fell  to  discussing  the  new  canal  which  was  to  connect 
the  Sesia  and  the  Ticino,  and  by  a  branching  network  of 
trenches  was  to  irrigate  the  meadows  and  pastures  of  the 
Lomellina.  Leonardo  was  superintendent  of  the  excava- 
tions for  the  canal,  though  he  had  not  the  title  of  Ducal 
Architect;  neither  was  he  called  the  Court  Painter,  but  only 
the  Sonatore  di  lire^  a  title  which  gave  him  precedence  of 
the  court  poets  like  Bellincioni,  and  had  been  accorded  to 
him  because  on  arrival  in  Milan  he  had  presented  Sforza 
with  a  silver  lyre,  made  by  his  own  hand  in  the  shape  of 
a  horse's  head. 

Having  explained  his  design  for  the  canal,  Leonardo 
requested  of  the  duke  that  he  might  be  put  in  possession  of 
the  further  moneys  necessary  for  the  prosecution  of  the  work. 


7o  THE  FORERUNNER 

'  How  much  ?  '  asked  Ludovico. 

*  Five  hundred  and  six  ducats  for  every  league :  in  all, 
fifteen  thousand  one  hundred  and  eighty-seven.' 

Ludovico  frowned,  remembering  the  fifty  thousand  he  had 
just  devoted  to  the  corruption  of  French  nobles. 

1  Too  much,  too  much,  Messer  Leonardo.  You  would 
ruin  me.  It  is  impossible,  unexampled.  Why  these  bound- 
less designs  ?  I  might  consult  Bramante,  you  know,  who  is 
also  an  expert  in  construction.     He  works  more  cheaply.' 

Leonardo  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

(  As  you  please,  my  lord.     Entrust  it  to  Bramante.' 

*  Nay,  be  not  offended.  I  have  no  thought  of  slighting  you.' 
And  they  fell  to  bargaining. 

'  Va  bene,  va  bene  ! '  said  the  duke  at  last,  deferring  the 
conclusion  of  the  agreement;  and  he  took  up  Leonardo's 
sketch-book  and  turned  over  the  unfinished  drawings,  chiefly 
architectural  and  mechanical :  the  artist,  somewhat  impatient, 
had  to  furnish  explanations  and  commentaries. 

On  one  sheet  there  was  a  huge  mausoleum,  an  artificial 
mountain  crowned  with  a  colonnaded  temple,  its  dome 
pierced  like  that  of  the  Pantheon;  on  the  next,  the  exact 
calculations  and  the  ground-plan  for  the  edifice,  with  details 
for  the  disposition  of  stairs,  cells,  corridors ;  the  whole  being 
destined  for  the  reception  of  five  hundred  sepulchral  urns. 

1  What  is  this  ? '  asked  the  duke ;  '  when  and  for  whom  have 
you  designed  it  ? ' 

1  For  no  one.     'Tis  a  fantasy.' 

*  Strange  fantasy ! '  commented  Ludovico  shaking  his  head ; 
1  'tis  a  cemetery  for  the  gods  or  the  Titans,  like  a  building  in 
a  city  of  dreams.' 

The  next  sketch  showed  the  plan  for  a  town  with  the  streets 
in  tiers,  one  above  the  other,  the  upper  for  the  rich,  the  lower 
for  the  poor,  for  animals,  and  for  refuse ;  a  town  to  be  built 
in  conformity  with  natural  laws;  for  men  without  a  conscience 
to  be  offended  by  glaring  inequality. 

'  Not  so  bad ! '  observed  the  duke.  '  You  think  it  would 
be  practicable  ? ' 

1  Certainly,'  said  Leonardo  brightening, '  I  have  long  wished 
your  Excellency  could  be  induced  to  try  it,  say  in  one  of  the 
suburbs.  Five  thousand  houses  would  suffice  for  thirty 
thousand  people ;  they  would  be  decently  divided,  whereas 
now  they  herd  together  in  dirt  and  distemper,  disseminating 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  71 

the  seeds  of  disease.  My  plan,  Signore,  if  literally  carried 
out,  would  provide  the  finest  city  in  the  world/ 

The  duke's  laughter  checked  the  enthusiast. 

1  You  are  finely  crazed,  Messer  Leonardo.  If  I  gave  you 
the  reins  you  would  turn  the  State  topsy-turvy.  You  do  not 
see  that  the  most  submissive  of  slaves  would  resent  your  two- 
storeyed  streets,  would  spit  upon  your  boasted  cleanliness — 
your  pipes  and  conduits — your  finest  city  in  the  world, perdio\ 
and  would  flee  back  to  their  lousy  old  towns  again,  where,  as 
you  say,  they  have  a  good  modicum  of  filth  and  distemper, 
but  no  insults  to  their  self-respect.  Well,  and  this? *  he 
added,  pointing  to  another  drawing. 

This  proved  to  be  a  design  for  a  'house  of  accommodation/ 
with  secret  rooms,  doors,  and  passages,  so  disposed  that  the 
visitors  should  not  meet  each  other. 

'Ah!  this  is  admirable!'  cried  the  duke.  'lam  weary 
of  the  robbings  and  the  murderings  in  these  places.  Here 
there  would  be  order  and  security.  I  will  build  at  once  on 
your  plan.'  He  smiled  and  added,  'Bravo!  Bravo!  I  see 
nothing  is  beneath  your  ingenuity.  A  propositi!  I  remember 
once  reading  of  the  "  Ear  of  Dionysius,"  a  construction  at 
Syracuse,  which  permitted  the  tyrant  in  his  palace  to  hear  the 
speech  of  his  prisoners  in  the  quarry.  Think  you  it  were 
possible  to  construct  an  Ear  in  my  palace  ?  ' 

As  he  spoke  the  duke  had  stammered  and  blushed  a  little, 
but  he  recovered  himself  immediately  :  before  such  a  man  as 
this  artist  no  shame  was  required.  And  Leonardo,  without 
trenching  on  morals,  eagerly  discussed  the  acoustics  of  the 
notion. 

Then  Bellincioni  reappeared,  announcing  that  his  sonnet 
was  ready  and  passing  beautiful;  at  which  Leonardo  took 
flight,  having  accepted  the  duke's  invitation  to  supper. 

Ludovico  requested  the  poet  to  read  his  work.  The 
salamander,  so  the  sonnet  ran,  lives  in  the  fire,  but  a  lady, 
of  virgin  ice,  has  her  dwelling  in  the  lover's  fiery  heart. 
The  concluding  quatrain  seemed  to  the  duke  surprisingly 
tender : — 

1 1  sing,  poor  swan,  of  my  consumed  years, 
But  singing  brings  my  torture  no  relief ; 
Love  with  his  laughter  blows  the  flame  of  grief, 
And  mocking  cries,  "  Extinguish  it  with  tears." 


72  THE  FORERUNNER 

VI 

While  waiting  till  his  consort  should  have  returned  from 
the  chase,  the  duke  took  a  walk  through  his  domain.  He 
inspected  the  stables,  built  like  a  Greek  temple,  with 
columns,  porticos,  and  doubly-lighted  windows  ;  the  splendid 
dairy,  where  he  tasted  junkets  and  new-made  cheese ; 
then,  passing  numberless  hay-barns  and  sheds,  came  to  the 
farm  and  the  cattle-yards.  Here  every  detail  rejoiced  his 
heart ;  the  sound  of  the  milk  falling  from  the  udders  of  his 
favourite  Languedoc  cow ;  the  newly-littered  sow's  motherly 
gruntings  ;  the  smell  of  honey  from  the  swarming  hives.  A 
smile  of  satisfaction  illumined  his  dark  face ;  truly  his  home 
was  like  a  filled  goblet  !  He  returned  to  the  house  and 
waited  under  the  gallery.  It  was  towards  evening,  but  not  yet 
the  hour  of  sunset ;  from  the  water-meadows  of  the  Ticino 
came  the  pungent  freshness  of  the  grass.  The  duke  cast  his 
eyes  slowly  over  his  estate  ;  pastures,  meadows,  fields  watered 
by  a  network  of  ditches,  planted  with  long  rows  of  apple,  and 
pear,  and  mulberry  trees,  trellised  with  the  hanging  garlands 
of  the  vines.  From  Mortara  to  Abbiategrasso  and  further 
to  the  very  horizon,  where  in  the  creeping  twilight  the  snows 
of  Monte  Rosa  gleamed  with  unearthly  radiance,  the  bound- 
less plain  of  Lombardy  flowered  like  the  Paradise  of  God. 

'  I  thank  thee,  Lord,'  said  the  devout  duke  raising  his  eyes 
heavenward.  '  I  thank  Thee  for  all.  What  more  is  there  that 
I  could  desire  of  Thee  ?  Once  a  barren  and  leafless  wilder- 
ness stretched  on  every  side,  but  I  and  Leonardo  have  made 
these  canals,  watered  this  land,  and  now  every  blade  of  grass, 
every  ear  of  corn  blesses  me  as  I  bless  thee,  O  Lord  ! ' 

Then  was  heard  the  tongue  of  the  hounds,  and  the  cry  of 
the  huntsmen,  and  above  the  vines  was  seen  a  red  lure,  a 
formless  object  with  partridge  wings,  for  bringing  back  the 
falcons.  Ludovico  and  his  major  domo  went  the  round  of 
the  tables  to  be  sure  that  all  was  ready  for  the  evening  feast. 
Presently  the  duchess  made  her  entry,  and  then  the  guests 
trooped  in,  among  them  Leonardo.  A  grace  was  recited, 
and  they  sat  down  to  table. 

The  first  course  consisted  of  artichokes  sent  by  express 
from  Genoa,  fat  eels  and  carp  from  the  Mantua  ponds,  gift 
from  Isabella  d'Este,  and  a  jelly  of  the  breasts  of  good 
capons.     The    company    ate   with    their    fingers    and    with 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  73 

knives,  forks  being  reserved  for  state  occasions.  Certain 
tiny  golden  ones  with  crystal  prongs  were,  however,  accorded 
to  the  ladies  at  the  fruit  course.  The  munificent  host 
assiduously  pressed  his  guests  to  eat ;  and  as  none  ever 
blushed  to  be  hungry,  the  food  and  the  liquors  circulated 
freely  and  long. 

Lucrezia  had  her  seat  beside  the  duchess,  and  the  admiring 
eyes  of  the  duke  rested  on  them  both.  It  pleased  him  that 
his  wife  should  honour  the  maiden  of  his  fancy,  passing 
dainties  from  her  own  plate  to  the  girl's,  and  caressing  her 
hand  with  that  expansive  and  playful  tenderness  which  young 
women  sometimes  exhibit  towards  one  another. 

The  conversation  centred  in  the  hunt,  and  Beatrice  told 
how  the  sudden  burst  of  a  stag  from  the  thicket  had  almost 
thrown  her  from  her  horse.  Much  laughter  followed  when 
the  fool  Gioda,  the  boaster,  told  of  the  boar  he  had 
slain,  singly,  and  with  superhuman  boldness  and  dexterity. 
The  animal  was  a  tame  pig,  cast  in  his  path  designedly,  and 
the  carcase  was  brought  in  and  exhibited.  The  fool  dis- 
played excesses  of  rage  at  these  aspersions;  but  his  fury 
and  simplicity  were  equally  assumed.  He  knew  a  bad  jest 
from  a  good  one. 

By  degrees  the  laughter  grew  louder,  and  abundant  pota- 
tions reddened  all  faces  ;  the  ladies  surreptitiously  locsened 
their  stay-laces.  The  cellarers  brought  round  light  Cyprus 
wine,  both  red  and  white,  mulled  at  the  fire,  and  spiced  with 
pistachios,  cinnamon,  and  cloves.  When  the  duke  called  for 
wine,  his  command  was  passed  out  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  stewards  in  a  solemn  chant,  as  of  a  church  function  ;  a 
goblet  was  brought  from  the  buffet,  and  the  chief  Seneschal 
dipped  a  talisman — an  unicorn  on  a  gold  chain — into  the 
liquor.  If  it  were  poisoned  the  horn  of  this  animal  was  to 
turn  black  and  to  shed  drops  of  gore.  Similar  talismans,  of 
toad's-stone  and  serpent's-tongue,  were  put  in  the  salt-cellars. 
Count  Bergamini,  Cecilia's  husband,  had  been  given  the 
seat  of  honour,  and  was  especially  gay  to-night,  in  spite  of 
age  and  gout.     Pointing  to  the  unicorn,  he  cried : — 

1 1  fancy  not  the  King  of  France  has  such  a  horn  as  your 
most  illustrious  Excellency  ! ' 

'Hee!  hee!  heel'  crowed  Janachi  the  hunchback,  shaking 
his  rattle  and  clanging  the  bells  of  his  motley  cap,  surmounted 
by  ass's  ears.     ■  Believe  him,  nuncle,  believe  him  ! ' 


74  THE  FORERUNNER 

And  the  duke  good-humouredly  threatened  the  jester  with 
his  finger.  Now  silver  trumpets  blared  to  announce  the 
entry  of  the  roasts — boar's  head  and  peacocks.  Last  came 
a  pasty  in  the  figure  of  a  castle ;  from  its  walls  sounded  a 
trumpet,  and  when  the  crust  was  cut  a  dwarf  in  parrot's 
plumage  sprang  out  and  hopped  round  the  table,  till  captured 
and  imprisoned  in  a  gilded  cage.  Thence  he  screamed  out 
a  paternoster. 

*  Messer,'  said  the  duchess  to  her  lord,  '  to  what  joyful 
event  must  we  attribute  the  unexpected  good  fare  of  this 
feast  ? ' 

II  Moro  made  no  answer,  but  exchanged  sly  glances  with 
Count  Bergamini.  Cecilia's  husband  understood  that  the 
celebration  was  for  the  new-born  Cesare. 

They  sat  over  the  boar's  head  for  more  than  an  hour, 
making  no  economy  of  time,  and  remembering  the  proverb, 
'At  table  none  groweth  old.'  At  the  close  of  the  repast, 
Fra  Talpone  caused  general  hilarity.  He  was  a  monk  of 
great  corpulence,  quarrelled  for  by  princes,  being  renowned 
for  voracity.  He  had  greatly  diverted  His  Holiness  the  Pope 
by  devouring  the  third  part  of  a  bishop's  cassock,  cut  in 
pieces,  and  steeped  in  vinegar.  Now  at  a  signal  from  the 
duke  a  huge  platter  of  '  buzecchio* — tripe  stewed  with  quinces 
— was  placed  before  the  friar.  He  sighed,  crossed  himself, 
rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and  consumed  it  with  relish  and 
incredible  rapidity. 

'  If  thou  had'st  dined  with  Christ  when  He  divided 
The  loaves  and  fishes  miracle  provided, 
No  morsel  had  remained  a  dog  to  fill, 
Whilst  thou  unsatisfied  had'st  hungered  still,' 

sang  Bellincioni  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Roars  of 
laughter  broke  from  the  company.  Only  the  face  of  the 
lonely  and  taciturn  Leonardo  retained  its  expression  of 
resigned  ennui. 

When  the  concluding  dish  of  gilded  oranges  had  been 
served  on  silver  plates,  and  handed  with  Malvoisie,  then 
Antonio  Camella  da  Pistoja,  a  court  poet,  recited  an  ode 
in  which  the  duke  was  addressed  by  the  Arts  and  Sciences 
and  Elements  in  these  terms  : — 

*  We  were  slaves ;  thou  earnest,  and  we  are  free.  Ewiva 
il  Moro 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  75 

VII 

After  supper  the  guests  adjourned  to  the  garden  called 
'The  Paradise';  laid  out  in  geometrical  figures  with  shorn 
edgings  of  box,  alleys  of  laurel  and  myrtle,  shaded  walks, 
labyrinths,  loggias,  and  woven  arbours.  Rugs  and  silken 
pillows  were  thrown  on  a  lawn  freshened  by  a  glittering 
fountain.  The  ladies  and  their  cavaliers  grouped  them- 
selves with  relaxing  ceremony  before  the  little  court  theatre, 
and  an  act  of  the  '  Miles  G/oriosus'  of  Plautus  was 
performed.  It  was  tedious,  but  the  audience,  out  of  rever- 
ence for  the  ancients,  feigned  attention.  After  the  comedy 
the  young  people  played  ball,  tennis,  and  blind-man's-buff, 
running  about,  laughing  and  catching  each  other  like 
children  among  the  luxuriant  and  fragrant  roses  and  orange- 
trees,  while  the  elders  were  at  dice,  draughts,  and  chess. 
Others  of  the  company  gathered  in  a  close  circle  on  the  steps 
of  the  fountain,  and  told  novelli  after  the  fashion  of  the 
youths  and  ladies  of  the  Decameron. 

Then  they  danced  to  the  tune  of  the  favourite  air  of 
•  Lorenzo  dei  Medici ' : — 

'  Quant  e  bella  giovlnezza 
Ma  si  fugge  tuttavia 
Chi  vuol  esser  lieto,  sia 
Di  doman  non  c'e  certezza.' 

(Fair-fleeting  Youth  must  snatch  at  happiness  ; 
He  knows  not  if  to-morrow  curse  or  bless. ) 

After  the  dance  Madonna  Diana,  a  gentle  girl  with  a 
pale  and  lovely  face,  sang  to  the  low  notes  of  the  lute  a 
plaint  on  unrequited  love.  As  by  enchantment  the  noise 
and  the  laughter  ceased,  and  all  listened  with  thought- 
ful and  reminiscent  attention.  It  was  long  before  any  one 
spoke,  and  after  the  ending  of  the  song  the  hush  was  broken 
only  by  the  quiet  rustling  of  the  fountain.  But  presently  the 
voices  and  the  mirth  and  the  music  awoke  again,  and  were  to 
be  heard  till  late  at  night,  when  the  laurels  were  lighted  by 
fireflies,  and  in  the  darkened  heaven  reigned  the  new-born 
moon.  And  over  all  the  Paradiso  floated  a  soft  air,  rich 
with  perfume  of  orange-blossom ;  and  still  trembled  the  notes 
of  the  Medicean  canzone  : — 

*  Chi  vuol  esser  lieto,  sia 
Di  doman  non  c'e  certezza. 


76  THE  FORERUNNER 


VIII 


The  duke  saw  a  glimmer  of  light  in  one  of  the  four  palace 
towers.  It  was  the  lamp  of  Messer  Ambrogio  da  Rosate, 
prime  astrologer,  and  a  member  of  the  Secret  Council,  who 
was  observing  the  conjunction  of  Mars,  Jupiter,  and  Saturn 
in  the  sign  of  Aquarius,  a  matter  of  profound  significance  for 
the  house  of  Sforza. 

As  if  pricked  in  his  memory,  the  duke  hastily  saluted 
Madonna  Lucrezia,  with  whom  he  had  been  engaged  in 
tender  discourse,  and  entered  the  palace.  He  looked  at  the 
clock,  and  having  awaited  the  precise  minute  and  second 
enjoined  by  the  astrologer,  swallowed  a  rhubarb  pill,  and 
consulted  a  calendar  in  which  he  read  the  following  note : — 

*  August  $th. — Eight  minutes  past  ten  of  the  evening,  pray 
heartily  on  your  knees,  after  folding  your  hands  and  raising 
your  eyes  to  Heaven.' 

Fearing  to  be  late,  and  so  miss  the  prescription's  efficacy, 
he  hurried  to  the  chapel,  unlighted  save  by  a  single  lamp 
before  a  picture.  The  duke  loved  the  picture ;  it  was  by 
Leonardo,  and  represented  Cecilia,  Countess  of  Bergamini, 
arrayed  like  the  Madonna,  blessing  a  hundred-petalled 
rose.  He  counted  eight  minutes  by  the  hour-glass,  sank  on 
his  knees,  folded  his  hands,  and  recited  the  Confiteor.  He 
prayed  long  and  fervently,  his  eyes  on  the  picture. 

1  Mother  of  God,'  he  murmured,  '  protect,  save,  and  have 
mercy  on  me,  on  my  son  Massimiliano,  and  Cesare,  the  newly- 
born.  I  commend  unto  thee  Beatrice,  my  consort,  and 
Madonna  Cecilia.  And  likewise  Gian  Galeazzo,  my  nephew, 
for  thou  see'st  my  heart,  and  knowest  that  I  wish  no  evil  to  my 
nephew,  though  it  may  be  that  his  death  would  set  free  not 
only  my  state,  but  all  Italy.' 

Here  he  remembered  the  proof  of  his  right  to  his  throne 
which  he  had  obtained  from  the  jurisconsult,  and  which 
stated  that  his  elder  brother  (father  of  Gian  Galeazzo)  having 
been  born  unto  Francesco  Sforza,  the  condottiere,  before 
he  became  Francesco  Sforza  and  Duke  of  Milan,  whereas 
Ludovico  was  born  unto  the  said  Francesco  after  he  had 
become  duke — the  younger  not  the  elder  was  obviously  the 
heir  to  the  ducal  dignities  of  the  common  father. 

At  this  moment,  however,  the  decision  seemed  to  Ludovico 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  77 

rather  ingenious  than  convincing.  He  hesitated  to  put  it 
before  the  Mother  of  God,  contenting  himself  thus  : — • 

1  If  in  anything  I  have  sinned  or  shall  sin  before  thee,  O 
Queen  of  Heaven,  thou  knowest  that  I  do  so  not  for  myself 
but  for  the  good  of  my  people  and  of  Italy.  Mediate  for  me 
with  God,  and  I  will  glorify  thee  by  the  building  in  splendour 
of  the  cathedral  in  this  town  of  Milan,  and  of  the  Certosa  at 
Pavia,  and  of  other  glorious  monuments.' 

After  his  prayer,  candle  in  hand,  he  went  toward  his  bed- 
chamber, passing  through  the  dark  rooms  of  the  sleeping 
palace.  In  one  of  them,  however,  he  encountered  Madonna 
Lucrezia. 

*  Truly,  the  god  of  Love  favours  me ! ' he  thought. 

I  Signore  ! '  exclaimed  the  girl ;  her  voice  broke,  she  would 
have  thrown  herself  on  her  knees  before  him,  as  she  added, 
1  have  pity  on  me,  my  lord  ! ' 

And  she  told  him  that  her  brother  Matteo  Crivelli,  chief  of 
the  chamberlains,  a  man  of  abandoned  life  but  whom  she  devot- 
edly loved,  had  lost  at  play  great  sums  of  the  public  money. 

*  Fear  not,  madonna !  I  will  save  your  brother.' 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  added  with  a  deep  sigh : — 

*  And  you  too,  O  madonna,  will  you  not  be  to  me  less  cruel? ' 
She  looked  questioningly  at  him  with  serene  and  innocent 

eyes. 

I I  do  not  understand  you,  signore.    What  is  your  meaning?' 
Her  modesty  rendered  her  yet  fairer. 

'It  means,  my  sweet,'  he  said,  throwing  his  arm  almost 
roughly  round  her,  '  it  means — but,  Lucrezia,  have  you  not 
seen  that  I  love  you  ?  ' 

I  Loose  me  !  Let  me  go  !  What  do  you,  signore !  Madonna 
Beatrice ' 

'  Shall  not  know  ! '  said  the  duke. 

'No,  my  lord,  no.  She  is  so  good,  so  generous  to  me. 
Leave  me,  for  pity's  sake — ' 

I I  will  save  your  brother — do  all  your  desire — be  your  slave. 
Only  have  pity  on  me.' 

And  half-sincere  in  his  passion  and  his  tears,  he  murmured 
in  trembling  tones  those  lines  of  the  poet's  : — 

*  I  sing,  poor  swan,  of  my  consumed  years, 
But  singing  brings  my  torture  no  relief; 
Love  with  his  laughter  blows  the  flame  of  grief, 
And  mocking  cries,  "  Extinguish  it  with  tears."' 


78  THE  FORERUNNER 

*  Let  me  go !     Let  me  go ! '  said  the  girl  desperately. 

But  he  bent  over  her,  feeling  the  freshness  of  her  breath, 
the  perfume  of  violet  and  musk,  and  forcibly  kissed  her  on 
the  lips.  For  one  moment  Lucrezia  languished  in  his 
embrace,  then,  with  a  despairing  cry,  broke  from  him  and 
fled. 

IX 

Having  reached  the  nuptial  apartment,  he  found  the  lamp 
extinguished,  and  Beatrice  already  reposing  in  the  huge, 
mausoleum-like  couch  on  a  dais  in  the  middle  of  the  floor 
under  a  blue  silk  baldachin.  It  was  adorned  with  silver 
curtains,  and  a  coverlet,  costly  as  the  vestment  of  a  priest,  of 
cloth  of  gold  and  pearls. 

*  Bice,'  he  whispered  caressingly ;  '  Bice,  dost  thou  sleep  ?' 
and  he  would  have  saluted  her,  but  she  repulsed  him. 

1  Bice — why  is  this?' 

*  Leave  me  in  peace ;  I  am  fain  of  sleep.' 

1  But  why,  dear  one,  why  ?  If  thou  knew'st  how  I  adore 
thee!' 

*  Yes,  yes,  I  know  you  adore  us  all  together.  Your  consort, 
and  Cecilia,  and  perdio  /  the  Muscovy  slave-woman,  the  red- 
haired  fool  whom  you  kissed  in  the  obscurer  angle  of  my 
wardrobe  room ! ' 

*'Twas  a  jest.' 

*  A  jest  I  care  not  for.' 

'Alas,  Bice,  these  many  days  thou  hast  been  harsh  to 
me  !  Well,  I  confess  it — I  am  guilty  ;  'twas  a  scurvy  jest — a 
caprice.' 

*  Your  caprices,  my  lord,  are  many.' 

She  turned  towards  him  angrily.  '  How  is  it  you  have 
no  shame?  Why,  why  these  lies?  Do  I  not  know  you? 
— read  you  to  the  soul?  I  would  not  have  you  think  this 
jealousy;  but  I  will  not,  hear  you,  my  lord? — I  will  not  be 
one  among  your  lemans.' 

'  I  swear  to  thee,  Bice,  I  have  loved  none  save  thee.  By  my 
soul's  eternal  weal,  I  swear  it.' 

She  was  silent,  surprised  less  by  his  words  than  by  the  tone 
in  which  they  were  uttered.  He  was  not  wholly  lying.  The 
more  he  deceived  her  the  more  he  felt  he  loved  her,  as  if 
passion  were  inflamed  by  fear,  qualms  of  conscience,  pity, 
and  remorse. 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  79 

'Pardon,  Bice,  pardon,'  he  implored;  'consider  my  love 
for  thee ' 

She  submitted  herself;  and  as  he  embraced  her,  invisible 
in  the  darkness,  he  remembered  serene  and  innocent  eyes, 
and  a  perfume  of  freshness,  of  violet  and  musk;  the  two 
loves  confused  themselves  in  an  exquisite  sensation. 

1  Truly  to-day  thou  art  something  like  a  lover ! '  she  said 
with  inward  pride. 

'  Of  a  truth,  dear  one ;  it  is  still  as  it  was  in  our  first 
days ' 

'  Foolishness  ! '  cried  Beatrice  laughing ;  '  Fie  on  this  tri- 
fling. Rather  should'st  thou  be  thinking  of  deeper  matters. 
It  seems  as  though  his  health  were  mending.' 

'  Nay,  'tis  but  few  days  since  Luigi  Marliani  assured  me 
there  was  no  hope  for  him,'  replied  the  duke ;  '  'tis  true  we 
have  now  a  little  amendment,  but  it  will  not  be  for  long  ;  he 
is  doomed  beyond  remission.' 

'  Who  can  tell  ? '  urged  Beatrice  ;  '  he  is  over-tended.  Of 
a  truth,  Ludovico,  I  marvel  at  your  patience.  You  bear 
insults  like  a  sheep.  You  say  "  The  power  is  in  our  hands," 
but  were  it  not  better  to  renounce  power  at  once  than  to 
tremble  for  it  night  and  day  like  thieves;  to  lick  the  dust 
before  that  haughty  bastard  who  is  he  King  of  France ;  to 
be  slaves  at  the  mercy  of  the  impudent  Alfonso;  to  weary 
ourselves  in  propitiating  that  perfidious  sorceress  of  Aragon  ! 
They  say  she  is  pregnant  again  :  a  new  serpent  will  come 
forth  from  that  cursed  nest.  And  to  fare  thus  for  our  whole 
lives  !  Consider,  Ludovico,  for  our  whole  lives  !  And  you 
call  that  having  the  power  in  our  own  hands  ! ' 

'But  the  physicians  constantly  aver,'  repeated  the  duke, 
'  that  this  malady  is  incurable ;  sooner  or  later ' 

'  Ay,  'tis  later  then.      For  ten  years  he  hath  been  dying.' 

There  was  a  silence.  Suddenly  she  threw  her  beautiful 
arm  round  his  neck,  and  drawing  herself  to  him,  she  whispered 
in  his  ear — words  which  made  him  shudder. 

'  Bice !  may  Christ  and  His  most  holy  Mother  pardon 
thee!  Never — dost  heed  me? — never  again  speak  to  me 
of  that' 

'  You  are  afraid,  perhaps  ?     Would  you  wish  me  to  try  ?' 

He  did  not  answer,  but  asked  presently  : — 

'  Of  what  thinkest  thou  ? ' 

*  My  lord/  she  answered,  '  I  am  thinking  about  peaches.' 


80  THE  FORERUNNER 

4  Ay ;  I  have  bidden  the  gardener  send  thee  of  the  ripest.' 
1 1  care  not  for  them.     My  thought  was  of  the  peaches  of 
Messer  Leonardo.     Hast  thou  heard  aught  of  those  ? 

*  What  should  I  have  heard  ? ' 
*That  they  be  poisoned.' 

*  How  poisoned  ? ' 

*  Tis  true.  He  hath  poisoned  them  himself,  by  magic,  for 
his  experiments.  Monna  Sidonia  told  me;  wonderfully 
beautiful  peaches ! ' 

And  again  they  were  silent,  embracing  thus  in  the  stillness 
and  the  dark;  their  thoughts  united,  each  listening  to  the 
quickened  beat  of  the  other's  heart — no  further  speech 
needed.  At  last  II  Moro,  with  almost  paternal  tenderness, 
kissed  his  young  wife  on  the  brow,  and  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross. 

'  Sleep,  dear  one,'  he  said,  ■  sleep  in  peace. ' 
That  night  the  duchess  saw  in  her  dreams  fair  peaches  on 
a  platter  of  gold.     She  proved  one  and  found  it  succulent  and 
toothsome ;  but  of  a  sudden  a  voice  cried  unto  her : — 

*  Poison  !  poison  ! '  and  again,  '  Poison  ! ' 

The  duke  likewise  dreamed  his  dream.  And  in  it  he 
fancied  himself  walking  on  the  shining  lawn  beside  the 
fountain.  And  before  him  at  a  little  distance  he  saw  three 
women,  white-clad  and  embracing  like  fair  sisters.  And 
nearing  himself,  he  perceived  the  one  to  be  Beatrice,  and 
the  second  Lucrezia,  and  the  third  Cecilia.  He  thanked 
his  God  that  at  last  they  were  friends ;  but  in  his  heart  he 
blamed  them  that  they  had  not  been  friends  from  the  first. 


The  clock  in  the  castle  tower  struck  the  hour  of  midnight, 
and  everywhere  was  the  silence  of  sleep,  saving  only  on  the 
altana,  where  the  duchess  was  wont  to  gild  her  hair;  for 
thither  Morgantina,  the  dwarf,  had  fled,  having  escaped  from 
the  closet  in  which  she  had  been  confined ;  there,  alone  in 
the  darkness,  she  bewailed  the  loss  of  her  baby. 

'They  have  slain  me  my  son!  And  wherefore,  O  Lord, 
wherefore  ?  He  had  done  no  wrong  to  any  one ;  he  alone 
comforted  me ! ' 

The  night  was  serene  ;  the  air  so  pure,  so  transparent,  that 
against  the  horizon  the  icy  summits  of  the  Alps  were  visible, 


THE  POISONED  FRUITS— 1494  81 

like  everlasting  crystals.  The  stillness  was  long  perturbed 
by  the  mournful  cries  of  the  madwoman,  like  the  keening  of 
some  bird  of  evil  omen.  Suddenly  she  gave  a  sigh,  raised 
her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  was  silent. 

The  stillness  of  death  followed ;  and  the  fool  smiled  at  the 
stars  which,  far  above  in  the  measureless  blue  of  a  summer 
night,  were  shining  upon  her — innocently  and  mysteriously 
shining. 


BOOK    IV 

THE   WITCHES'   SABBATH — 1494 

Heaven  above — heaven  below, 

Stars  above — stars  below, 

All  which  is  over  man — under  him  shows  ; 

Glory  to  him  who  the  riddle  readeth  ! ' 

Tabula  Smaragdina. 

I 

In  an  obscure  outskirt  of  Milan,  near  the  Porta  Vercellina, 
the  Customs  House,  and  the  canal  called  the  Acqua  Cantarana, 
stood  an  old  house,  very  solitary,  and  remarkable  for  the 
smoke  which  day  and  night  ascended  in  large  spirals  from  an 
immense,  winding,  and  blackened  chimney.  Here  dwelt 
Monna  Sidonia,  the  wise  woman.  The  upper  floor  she 
hired  to  Messer  Galeotto  Sacrobosco,  an  alchemist;  and  in 
the  lower  she  lived  herself  with  Cassandra,  his  niece,  the 
young  daughter  of  Luigi  Sacrobosco,  a  celebrated  traveller, 
who  had  traversed  Greece,  the  islands  of  the  Archipelago, 
Syria,  Asia  Minor,  and  Egypt,  in  the  quest  for  specimens 
of  ancient  art.  He  possessed  himself  of  all  that  came  to 
hand :  a  Greek  marble,  or  a  trifle  of  amber,  a  sham  inscrip- 
tion from  the  tomb  of  Homer,  a  new  tragedy  by  Euripides, 
or  a  peroration  by  Demosthenes.  Some  thought  him  a  great 
man,  but  others  dubbed  him  an  impostor;  and  not  a  few 
believed  him  crazy.  His  imagination  was  so  enthralled  by 
pagan  recollections  that  though  to  the  last  a  good  Catholic, 
he  prayed  to  the  Olympian  Hermes,  and  regarded  Wednes- 
day (Mercoledi)  his  day,  as  one  singularly  propitious  for 
mercantile  ventures.  No  toil,  no  privations,  daunted  him 
in  his  enterprises.  On  one  occasion,  having  already  put  out 
ten  leagues  to  sea,  he  returned  to  copy  an  inscription  of 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  83 

which  accident  had  informed  him.  Having  lost  his  col- 
lection in  a  shipwreck,  his  hair  turned  white  with  grief. 
If  asked  why  he  so  plagued  himself  and  spent  his  days  in 
such  sore  labour,  he  always  replied: — 

*  I  desire  to  raise  the  dead.' 

In  the  little  town  of  Mistra,  near  the  ruins  of  Lacedaemon, 
he  met  a  maiden  of  extraordinary  beauty,  resembling  the 
statues  of  Artemis.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  poor  and 
drunken  village  deacon ;  Luigi  married  her  and  took  her 
to  Italy  with  a  new  copy  of  the  Iliad,  the  fragments  of  a 
Hecate,  and  the  shreds  of  an  earthenware  amphora. 

To  the  pair  was  born  a  daughter,  whom  they  called  Cas- 
sandra, Luigi  being  at  that  time  impassioned  for  ^Eschylean 
tragedy.  The  wife  died,  and  the  father  was  off  on  his 
wanderings,  so  the  child  was  left  to  the  care  of  Demetrius 
Chalcondylas,  a  learned  Greek  from  Constantinople  who  had 
been  brought  to  Milan  by  the  Sforzas.  This  old  man  of 
seventy,  a  double-faced,  cunning,  and  secretive  person,  pre- 
tended a  vast  zeal  for  the  Catholic  Church;  in  his  heart, 
however,  like  Cardinal  Bessarione,  and  most  of  the  immigrant 
Greeks,  he  was  a  disciple  of  the  last  of  the  masters  of  the 
ancient  wisdom,  Gemistus  Pletho,the  Replete  with  Learning, 
the  neoplatonist  who  had  died  forty  years  before  at  Mistra, 
where  Luigi  had  become  enamoured  of  his  Artemis.  This 
man  had  been  affirmed  by  his  disciples  to  be  a  re-incarnation 
of  the  illustrious  Plato  himself;  the  theologians,  on  the 
contrary,  maintained  that  he  had  revived  the  anti-Christian 
heresies  of  Julian  the  Apostate,  and  that  he  was  to  be  fought 
not  by  argument-  and  ..controversy,  but  by  the  Inquisition 
and  the  stake.  Chiefly  they  accused  him  on  account  of 
certain  words  uttered  to  his  disciples  three  years  before  his 
death.  He  had  said :  c  But  a  few  years  after  I  shall  have 
died,  one  sole  Truth  shall  reign  over  all  peoples  and  nations, 
and  men  shall  unite  in  the  single  faith'  (unam  eandemque 
religionem  universum  orbem  esse  suscepturani).  Being  ques- 
tioned whether  he  meant  the  faith  of  Christ  or  of  Mahomet, 
he  answered :  ■  Neither  the  one  nor  yet  the  other,  but  a  faith 
which  in  naught  shall  differ  from  the  ancient  paganism' 
(neutram,  inquit,  sed  a  gentilitate  no?i  differentem). 

Cassandra  was  bred  by  Chalcondylas  in  strict  though 
feigned  Christian  piety.  Overhearing,  however,  much 
neoplatonic  talk,  and   not  understanding  its  philosophical 


84  THE  FORERUNNER 

subtleties,  the  maid  wove  for  herself  a  fantastic  dream  of  the 
coming  Resurrection  of  the  Gods.  On  her  breast  she  wore 
a  talisman  against  fever,  a  present  from  her  father ;  it  was  a 
gem  representing  Dionysus  as  a  naked  youth,  with  thyrsus 
and  vine-branch,  a  rearing  panther  trying  to  lick  the  grapes 
in  his  hand.  Sometimes,  when  quite  alone,  she  would  hold 
her  amethyst  up  to  the  sun  and  gaze  into  its  purple  depths 
until  her  head  swam,  and  she  saw  the  god  in  a  vision,  living, 
and  ever  young  and  adorable. 

Messer  Luigi  ruined  himself  at  last  in  his  quest  for  treasures, 
and  died  miserably  of  a  putrid  fever  in  a  shepherd's  hut 
beside  the  ruins  of  a  Phoenician  temple,  which  he  had  him- 
self discovered.  Soon  after,  Galeotto,  his  brother,  who  also 
had  wandered  for  many  years  in  pursuit,  not  of  antiquities 
but  of  the  philosopher's  stone,  came  to  Milan,  established 
himself  in  the  little  house  by  the  Vercellina  gate,  and  took 
his  niece  to  live  with  him. 

She  still,  however,  frequented  the  house  of  Chalcondylas, 
and  thither  came  Giovanni  Boltraffio  to  execute  some  copying 
for  Messer  Giorgio  Merula. 

Encountering  Cassandra  again,  Giovanni  remembered  the 
talk  he  had  overheard  between  her  and  Zoroastro  about  the 
poisoned  tree,  and  he  shuddered.  Many  told  him  the 
maiden  was  a  sorceress,  but  her  charm  was  not  to  be 
resisted,  and  almost  every  evening  when  his  work  was  done 
he  sought  her  in  the  lonely  cottage  by  the  Vercellina  gate. 
They  sat  on  a  hillock  together  above  the  dark  and  silently 
swift  waters  of  the  canal,  not  far  from  the  sluice  gates 
near  the  convent  of  St.  Radegonda.  A  scarce  visible  path, 
tangled  with  elder-bushes,  wormwood,  and  nettles,  led  to  the 
little  hillock ;  no  one  ever  passed  that  way,  and  there  the  two 
met  and  loitered  and  talked  long  together. 

II 

It  was  a  sultry  evening;  at  rare  intervals  a  gust  came 
flying,  raising  the  white  dust  and  rustling  in  the  leaves.  It 
passed  by,  leaving  the  stillness  stiller  than  before.  Nothing 
was  heard  but  the  dull,  seemingly  subterranean  growl  of 
distant  thunder,  and  against  this  low,  threatening,  and  solemn 
roar,  the  broken  shrillness  of  a  lute  and  the  drunken  song  of 
the  customs-collector  celebrating  the  Sunday  feast  in  the 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  85 

neighbouring  tavern.  At  times  a  flash  broke  across  the 
clouds,  and  then  for  a  moment  the  little  house  with  the 
brick  chimney,  and  the  black  smoke  of  the  alchemist's 
furnace,  the  long  lean  sacristan  fishing  from  the  bank,  the 
straight  canal  with  the  rows  of  larches  and  willows,  the  flat- 
bottomed  barges  from  the  Lago  Maggiore  bringing  white 
marble  for  the  cathedral,  and  drawn  by  sorry  horses,  their 
loose  towing-ropes  and  the  long  whips  of  the  drivers  dipping  in 
the  water— all  stood  out  sharp  and  clear  against  the  prevailing 
blackness.  All  was  again  wrapped  in  gloom,  save  for  the 
alchemist's  fire  always  vividly  glowing.  It  was  reflected  in 
the  Cantarana,  whence  came  noisome  odours  of  stagnant  back- 
waters, rotting  fern-leaves,  tar,  and  decaying  wood. 

Giovanni  and  Cassandra  were  in  their  accustomed  haunt. 

"Tis  tedious  ! '  cried  the  girl,  stretching  herself  wearily  and 
snapping  her  delicate  white  fingers  behind  her  head;  '  every 
day  the  same  dull  round.  To-day  as  yesterday,  and  to- 
morrow as  to-day.  That  same  foolish  sacristan  catching 
nothing ;  the  same  filthy  smoke  from  Messer  Galeotto's  work- 
shop, where  he,  too,  eternally  seeks  what  he  will  never  find ; 
the  same  boats  towed  by  the  same  hateful  horses ;  the  same 
cracked  lute !  Ah,  if  it  would  but  change !  If  the  French 
would  come  and  rid  us  of  Milan  !  if  the  sacristan  would 
catch  a  fish,  or  my  uncle  find  some  gold.  Dio  Mio  /  what 
weariness ! ' 

1 1  know  ! '  cried  Giovanni.  '  I  also  at  times  find  life  so 
wearisome  that  I  am  fain  to  die.  But  Fra  Benedetto  taught 
me  a  prayer  very  prevalent  against  the  demon  of  discontent. 
Shall  I  recite  it  for  you?  ' 

*  Nay,  Giovanni.  It  is  long  since  I  have  been  able  to  pray 
to  your  God.' 

'My  God?  What  god  is  there  but  my  Gcd?  the  only 
God?' 

A  quick  flash,  like  the  lightning  of  the  storm,  illumined  her 
face ;  never  had  it  seemed  to  him  so  mystic,  so  unearthly,  so 
fair.  She  was  silent  for  a  time,  passing  her  hand  over  the 
dark  aureole  of  her  hair. 

*  Hearken,  friend.  It  was  long  ago — yonder — in  my  native 
land.  I  was  scarce  more  than  a  babe.  My  father  had  taken 
me  with  him  on  a  journey.  We  visited  the  ruins  of  an 
ancient  temple.  They  stood  high  on  a  promontory;  the  sea 
was  around  us  and   the   screaming   gulls;  the  waves   were 


86  THE  FORERUNNER 

breaking  endlessly  on  black  rocks,  sharp  as  needles,  and 
covered  with  salt  foam,  which  rose  and  fell,  running  off  the 
sharp  points  of  the  rocks  in  a  seething  stream.  He  found  a 
half-faded  inscription  on  the  fragment  of  a  marble  slab.  I 
sat  long  alone  on  the  temple  steps,  listening  to  the  sea 
and  breathing  in  its  freshness,  mixed  with  the  scent  of  the 
sea-herbs.  Then  I  went  into  the  abandoned  shrine.  The 
columns  were  yellow,  but  scarce  crumbled  by  time,  and 
between  them  the  azure  sky  seemed  dark.  There  were 
poppies  growing  in  the  crevices  between  the  stones — pink 
poppies— the  poppies  of  Greece  !  It  was  quite  still,  but  for 
that  muffled  roar  of  the  waves  which  rilled  the  temple  as  if 
with  the  voices  of  prayer.  And  I  fell  on  my  knees  and 
prayed  to  the  god  who  had  once  been  enshrined  there — 
unknown  and  now  rejected  by  men.  I  kissed  his  marble 
steps,  and  I  wept  and  loved  him  because  no  one  on  earth 
loved  him  any  more,  nor  prayed  to  him — because  he  was 
dead.  Never  since  have  I  prayed  so  fervently !  And  that 
temple— it  was  the  temple  of  DIONYSUS  ! ' 

'By  the  love  of  God,  Cassandra,  what  are  you  saying? 
This  Dionysus,  whom  you  call  God,  exists  not,  nor  did 
exist.' 

1  Did  he  not  ? '  cried  the  girl,  scornfully ;  •  then  why  teach 
the  holy  fathers,  whom  you  reverence,  that  the  gods,  banished 
in  the  days  of  the  conquering  Jesus,  were  changed  into  most 
potent  demons?  How  could  Giorgio  da  Novara,  the  great 
astronomer,  learn  by  exact  observation  that  the  conjunction 
of  Jupiter  with  Saturn  produced  the  teaching  of  Moses;  with 
Mars,  that  of  the  Chaldeans ;  with  Venus,  that  of  Mahomet ; 
with  Mercury,  that  of  Christ ;  and  that  conjunction  with  the 
moon — future  for  him — would  bring  the  teaching  of  Anti- 
christ and  the  Resurrection  of  the  Gods?' 

The  storm  was  drawing  nearer,  the  thunder  roared  louder, 
the  flashes  grew  ever  brighter,  heavy  clouds  were  spreading 
overhead,  yet  still  the  broken  lute  sobbed  forth  its  insistent 
melody  on  the  threatening  air. 

1  O  madonna ! '  cried  Boltraffio  clasping  his  hands,  '  do 
you  not  see  that  'tis  the  devil  who  is  tempting  you  that  he 
may  lure  you  to  the  abyss  !     Eternal  curses  upon  him  ! ' 

The  girl  turned,  laid  both  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and 
said : — 

'And  does  he  not  tempt  you  also?    Why  did  you  leave 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  87 

your  sainted  teacher,  Benedetto?  Why  did  you  enter  into 
the  school  of  the  impious  Leonardo?  What  brings  you 
hither  unto  me?  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  witch  ?  Are  you 
not  affrighted  lest  you  lose  your  soul  talking  here  with  me  ? ' 

'The  strength  of  the  Lord  defend  us!'  he  stammered, 
shuddering. 

She  silently  drew  near  him,  fixing  him  with  her  wondrous 
eyes.  At  that  moment  the  lightning  rent  the  cloud  and 
flashed  on  her  pale  face.  Was  she  the  goddess  who  had 
risen  before  Giovanni's  awestruck  gaze  from  her  tomb  on 
the  Hill  of  the  Mill? 

''Tis  she!'  he  thought  in  terror.  'She  has  found  me 
again,  the  White  She-devil ! ' 

He  would  have  risen,  but  his  forces  seemed  to  have  left 
him.  He  felt  the  girl's  hot  breath  on  his  cheek,  and  listened 
as  she  whispered  : — 

'  Will  you  that  I  reveal  everything  to  you  ?  Will  you  fly 
with  me  thither  where  He  is  ?  Ah,  it  is  good  there  !  There 
is  no  weariness;  nothing  maketh  ashamed.  There  all  things 
are  permitted  as  in  Paradise  ! ' 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  Giovanni's  brow,  but  curiosity 
impelled  him,  and  in  a  low  voice  he  asked : — 

'Where?' 

1  Al  Sabbato  I '  she  answered  with  passionate  languor,  her 
lips  almost  touching  his  cheek. 

A  peal  of  thunder,  now  quite  overhead,  shook  earth  and 
sky,  rolling  through  the  air  in  majestic  reverberation,  like  the 
laugh  of  unseen  giants.  Then  slowly  it  died  away  into  the 
great  silence. 

And  then  rang  out  the  melancholy  peaceful  sound  of  the 
convent  bell,  the  evening  Angelus.  Giovanni  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross. 

'  It  is  late,'  said  the  girl  rising ;  '  I  must  return  homeward. 
Do  you  see  those  torches,  there  on  the  road  ?  'Tis  the  duke 
coming  to  visit  Messer  Galeotto,  who  is  to  show  him  an 
interesting  experiment  with  lead.  He  thinks  it  can  be  turned 
into  gold.' 

True  it  was,  the  tramping  of  hoofs  was  heard  coming  from 
the  Porta  Vercellina.  Cassandra  lingered  for  a  moment,  then 
darted  through  the  tangled  elder-bushes  and  disappeared. 


88  THE  FORERUNNER 


III 


Messer  Galeotto  had  consumed  his  whole  life  in  the  search 
for  the  philosopher's  stone.  Having  finished  his  medical 
course  at  Bologna  University,  he  had  entered  as  famulus  the 
service  of  Count  Bernardo  Trevisani,  renowned  as  an  adept 
in  the  occult  sciences.  Afterwards,  for  fifteen  years,  he  had 
sought  the  transforming  mercury  in  all  possible  substances ; 
in  volatile  salts,  bismuth,  arsenic,  human  blood,  gall, 
and  hair,  in  animals  and  plants.  In  this  fashion  the  six 
thousand  ducats  of  his  patrimony  had  been  dissipated  in  the 
smoke  which  ascended  from  his  chimney.  He  must  needs 
live  on  the  wealth  of  others.  Money-lenders  cast  him  into 
prison;  he  escaped;  and  for  eight  years  experimented 
with  eggs,  destroying  some  twenty  thousand.  Next  he 
studied  copperas  with  Maestro  Enrico,  the  papal  pronotary, 
fell  ill  from  the  poisonous  fumes,  lay  in  bed  for  fourteen 
months,  and,  deserted  by  every  one,  came  near  dying. 
Having  endured  all  humiliations  and  persecutions,  starvation, 
beggary,  contempt,  and  even  judicial  torture,  he  wandered  as 
an  itinerant  artificer  through  France,  Spain,  the  countries  of 
the  Empire,  Holland,  Greece,  Persia,  Palestine,  Northern 
Africa.  At  last,  old  and  worn  out,  but  not  yet  disillusioned,  he 
returned  to  Lombardy,  where  II  Moro  promised  him  the  office 
of  court  alchemist. 

At  Milan,  in  the  lonely  cottage  by  the  Porta  Vercellina, 
he  had  set  up  his  laboratory.  It  was  a  large  chamber,  in 
the  middle  of  which  was  a  clumsy  stove  of  fire-proof  earth 
divided  into  compartments,  and  fitted  with  valves,  crucibles 
and  bellows.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  a  pile  of  refuse. 
The  working-table  was  heaped  with  every  sort  of  complicated 
apparatus,  cubes,  rectifiers,  receivers,  retorts,  funnels,  mortars, 
test-tubes,  bottles,  baths.  A  pungent  smell  was  given  off  by 
poisonous  alkalis  and  acids.  Here  the  seven  gods  of 
Olympus,  the  seven  heavenly  planets,  a  whole  occult  and 
mystic  universe  had  its  counterpart  in  metal:  the  sun  in 
gold,  the  moon  in  silver,  Venus  in  brass,  Mars,  iron,  Saturn, 
lead,  Jupiter,  tin,  and  Mercury  in  quicksilver.  Here  were 
substances  with  barbaric  names  which  struck  terror  into  the 
profane.  Here  were  wolfs  milk,  the  iron  of  Achilles,  ana- 
cardines,  asterites  (clear-shining  stones,  having  in  the  midst 
an    image  of  a  full   moon),   androgyna,  and   rhaponticum, 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  89 

aristolochia  or  hart-wort  (for  giving  ease  in  childbirth) ;  and  a 
priceless  drop  of  the  blood  of  a  lion  which  had  cost  years  to 
obtain,  a  gem,  red  as  a  ruby,  which  cures  all  diseases  and 
blesses  with  eternal  youth. 

At  his  table  sat  the  alchemist,  meagre,  small,  wrinkled  as 
an  old  mushroom,  but  still  alert  and  tireless.  His  head  sup- 
ported on  his  two  hands,  Messer  Galeotto  was  gazing  intently 
at  a  retort,  in  which  with  low  noise  and  bubbling  was  burning 
oil  of  Venus,  a  clear  green  fluid.  The  candle  that  burned 
by  the  philosopher's  side  sent  an  emerald  light  through  the 
retort  on  an  ancient  parchment  folio,  a  work  by  the  Arab 
chemist  Djabira  Abdallah. 

Hearing  voices  and  footsteps  on  the  stair,  Galeotto  rose, 
threw  a  glance  round  the  laboratory  to  make  sure  all  was 
ready,  signed  to  his  silent  famulus  to  throw  fuel  on  the 
furnace,  and  sallied  forth  to  meet  his  guests. 

IV 

They  were  a  merry  company  of  knights  and  dames,  just 
risen  from  supper  and  Malvoisie.  Leonardo  was  there,  and 
Marliani,  the  court  physician,  a  man  profoundly  versed  in 
alchemy.  The  ladies  entered,  and  the  quiet  cell  of  the 
student  was  filled  with  perfumes,  with  the  rustle  of  silk,  with 
light  chatter  and  laughter  like  the  hum  of  birds.  One  damsel 
overturned  a  retort  with  her  hanging  sleeve,  another  med- 
dling with  a  piece  of  iron  slag  cut  her  dainty  glove,  another 
spilt  the  mercury  on  the  table  and  screamed  with  delight  on 
seeing  the  living  silver  drops. 

*  And  shall  we  really  see  Messer  Satan  in  the  fire  at  the 
moment  of  the  lead's  conversion?'  asked  Madonna  Filiberta 
of  her  Spanish  lover ;  '  is  it  not  a  sin  to  assist  at  such  experi- 
ments?' 

The  alchemist  whispered  in  Leonardo's  ear  : — 

1  Believe  me,  Messere,  I  hold  myself  much  honoured  by 
your  visit.'  And  he  warmly  clasped  his  hand,  adding  before 
Leonardo  could  respond : — 

'Oh,  I  know,  I  know!  'Tis  a  secret  from  the  crowd;  but 
we  understand  each  other,  do  we  not?  ' 

Then  with  a  smile  of  great  affability  he  said  aloud  : — 

'  With  licence  from  my  most  illustrious  protector,  the  re- 
nowned duke,  and  of  all  these  loveliest  ladies,  I  will  adventure, 


9o  THE  FORERUNNER 

now  to  exhibit  the  divine  metamorphosis.  Will  you  all  con- 
descend to  lend  me  your  honourable  attention  ? ' 

First  he  showed  his  crucible,  a  melting-pot  with  thick  sides 
of  fireproof  clay ;  he  beirged  each  one  to  examine  it,  and 
tap  it,  and  convince  himself  there  was  no  concealed  deception, 
while  he  animadverted  on  the  frauds  of  pretended  philosophers 
who  were  wont  to  have  vessels  with  false  bottoms  in  which 
gold  had  been  placed,  not  made.  He  also  craved  inspection 
of  the  pewter,  the  fuel,  the  bellows,  and  all  else,  to  prove 
his  good  faith.  Then  the  lead  was  chopped  into  small 
pieces  and  consigned  to  the  crucible,  which  was  then  put  on 
the  hottest  place  of  the  furnace.  The  silent,  cross-eyed 
famulus — so  pale,  corpse-like  and  surly,  that  one  of  the  ladies 
near  fainted,  believing  him  the  expected  Messer  Satan — began 
to  work  a  huge  pair  of  bellows,  and  the  fire  quickly  leaped 
into  flame.  Galeotto  meanwhile  entertained  his  visitors  with 
conversation,  and  awakened  general  mirth  by  calling  his  science 
of  alchemy  casta  meretrix,  who  had  many  lovers  but  deluded 
them  all,  offered  easy  conquest  to  everybody,  but  had  so  far 
yielded  to  the  embraces  of  none. 

Luigi  Marliani,  the  court  physician,  a  fat,  taciturn,  gloomy 
man  with  a  dignified  and  intelligent  face,  lost  patience  with 
this  chatter,  and  wiping  his  brow,  cried  out : — 

1  Messer  Galeotto,  methinks  'tis  time  for  business.  Your 
metal  is  already  bubbling. ' 

Galeotto  opened  a  little  blue  paper  packet  which  con- 
tained a  bright  yellow  powder,  viscous  and  sparkling,  like 
highly  polished  glass.  It  had  a  strong  smell  of  burnt  sea-salt. 
This  was  the  momentous  tincture,  the  long-sought,  priceless 
jewel  of  alchemy,  the  wonder-working  lapis  philosophorum. 

With  the  point  of  a  knife  he  detached  a  speck  of  the  powder 
no  larger  than  a  turnip-seed,  wrapped  it  in  a  ball  of  bees-wax, 
and  tossed  it  into  the  boiling  pewter. 

*  And  what  do  you  consider  the  strength  of  that  solution  ?  ■ 
asked  Marliani. 

'One  to  two  thousand  eight  hundred  and  twenty  of  the 
metal  to  be  converted,'  replied  Galeotto.  '  Naturally  my 
solution  is  not  yet  perfected,  but  shortly,  I  hope,  the  figures 
will  be  one  to  a  million.  Then  it  will  suffice  to  take  of  it  the 
weight  of  a  grain  of  millet,  to  dissolve  it  in  a  barrel  of  water  con- 
taining the  parings  of  a  hazel-nut ;  and  finally,  to  sprinkle 
your  vines  therewith ;  in  result  you  will  have  your  vintage 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  91 

in  May.  Mare  tingerem  si  Mercurius  esset.  I  would  turn  the 
sea  into  gold  had  I  competency  in  quicksilver.' 

Marliani  turned  away  with  a  shrug.  This  bombast  infuri- 
ated him,  and  he  hinted  the  impossibility  of  such  transforma- 
tions by  arguments  supported  by  Aristotle. 

1  Have  patience,  domine  magister?  said  Galeotto  with  a 
smile ;  '  in  a  little  space  I  will  propound  to  you  such  a  syllo- 
gism as  not  all  your  logic  can  confute.' 

Therewith  he  threw  a  handful  of  white  powder  in  the  fire. 
Clouds  of  thick  smoke  filled  the  laboratory.  Hissing  and 
crackling,  up  leapt  a  many-coloured  flame,  changing  like  a 
rainbow  from  blue  to  green,  from  red  to  yellow.  The  specta- 
tors were  alarmed,  and  Filiberta  afterward  swore  that  at  the 
instant  the  flame  was  purple,  she  saw  in  it  the  face  of  the 
Devil.  The  alchemist  with  a  long  hooked  iron  raised  the  lid 
of  the  crucible.  The  metal,  white-hot,  bubbled  and  hissed  and 
gurgled.  Then  the  lid  was  replaced ;  the  bellows  soughed 
and  whistled,  and  when  ten  minutes  later  a  thin  iron  rod  was 
dipped  into  the  molten  liquid,  all  saw  hanging  on  its  end  a 
a  yellow  drop. 

1  Ready  ! '  cried  the  alchemist. 

The  pot  was  now  removed  from  the  furnace  and  allowed  to 
cool.  Then  before  the  astounded  spectators,  there  fell  from 
it,  sparkling  and  resounding  on  the  earthen  floor,  a  bar  of  gold. 
The  alchemist  pointed  dramatically,  and  exclaimed  : — 

*  Solve  mihi  hunc  syllogismum  1 ' 

*  Unheard  of  !  Incredible  !  Against  all  the  laws  of  nature 
and  of  logic  ! '  murmured  Marliani  in  stupefaction. 

The  face  of  Galeotto  was  white,  his  eyes  glowed  with  the 
fire  of  inspiration,  and  looking  up  to  heaven,  he  cried  : — 

'Laudelur  Dens  in  ceternum  !  Praise  God  in  eternity  who 
deigns  to  give  part  of  his  infinite  power  unto  us,  the  most 
abject  of  his  creatures.' 

The  gold  was  tested  with  sulphuric  acid.  It  proved  to  be 
purer  than  the  finest  of  Hungary  or  Arabia.  The  company 
pressed  about  the  venerable  philosopher,  congratulating  him, 
and  wringing  his  hands.     II  Moro  took  him  aside. 

'You  serve  me  in  fidelity  and  truth,  Messer  Galeotto  ? ' 

*I  would  I  had  more  lives  than  one,  that  I  might  dedicate 
them  all  to  your  Excellency,'  replied  the  alchemist. 

'Then,  Galeotto,  beware  lest  any  of  the  other  princes ' 

1  Illustrissimo,  if  there  be  one  of  them  who  shall  get  even 


92  THE  FORERUNNER 

a  scent  of  it,  have  me  hanged  for  a  hound.'  And  after  a 
pause  he  added,  bowing  very  low,  '  I  would  pray  of  your 
Excellency ' 

'What?    Again?' 

'  God  is  my  witness,  'tis  for  the  last  time.' 

'  How  much  ? ' 

1  Five  thousand  ducats.' 

The  duke  reflected,  reduced  the  sum  by  a  thousand,  and 
promised.  It  was  now  late ;  Madonna  Beatrice  might  be 
anxious ;  the  company  hastened  to  take  their  leave,  each  one 
receiving  from  the  alchemist  a  fragment  of  the  new-made 
gold.     Only  Leonardo  remained  behind. 


When  they  were  alone  Galeotto  said  to  him,  'Well,  Master, 
what  think  you  of  my  experiment  ? ' 

'The  gold  was  in  the  rods,'  replied  Leonardo  dryly. 

'  What  rods  ?     What  do  you  mean,  Sir  ?  ' 

'The  rods  with  which  you  stirred  the  molten  metal.  I 
saw  all.' 

'  Did  you  not  yourself  examine  all  my  utensils?' 

'  These  rods  were  not  those  we  examined.' 

'  Not  those !     Master,  permit  me ' 

'  Have  I  not  told  you  I  saw  everything?'  repeated  Leonardo 
with  a  smile.  '  Be  not  obstinate,  Galeotto.  The  gold  was 
concealed  in  hollow  rods  tipped  with  wood.  When  the 
wooden  ends  were  consumed  in  the  molten  mass,  the  gold  fell 
into  it.' 

The  old  man's  legs  shook ;  over  his  face  spread  a  look  at 
once  abject  and  pathetic.  Leonardo  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

'  Fear  not,  Messer  Galeotto,  none  shall  know.  I  am  no 
tale-bearer.' 

The  impostor  seized  his  hand  feverishly  and  cried : — 

'  You  will  not  betray  me  ? ' 

'  No.  I  wish  you  no  ill.  But,  Messer  Galeotto,  why  these 
frauds  ? ' 

'Oh,  Messer  Leonardo,' cried  the  other,  and  immediately 
the  boundless  despair  in  his  eyes  was  transfigured  by  a  flash 
of  hope,  '  I  swear  to  you  by  God,  that  if  I  seem  to  have 
practised  deception,  'tis  but  for  the  welfare  of  the  duchy,  for 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  93 

the  triumph  of  science,  and  because  my  deception  shall 
endure  but  a  brief  space.  For,  Messer  Leonardo,  truth  it  is 
that  I  have  verily  found  the  philosopher's  stone.  I  do  not 
assert  that  I  have  it  yet  in  my  possession,  but  I  know  that  it 
already  exists.  That  is  to  say,  it  as  good  as  exists ;  for  I 
have  found  the  way,  and  you  know  that  the  way  is  everything. 
Three  or  four  more  experiments,  and  lo  !  it  is  accomplished. 
What  was  I  to  do,  Messere?  Is  not  the  discovery  of  so 
grand  a  truth  justification  for  so  small  a  deception  ?  ' 

'Nay,  Messer  Galeotto,'  replied  Leonardo  gravely,  'to 
what  purpose  would  you  play  with  me  at  blind-man's-buff? 
You  know  right  well,  even  as  I  know,  that  the  transmutation 
of  metals  is  a  baseless  dream  :  that  there  is  no  philosopher's 
stone,  nor  can  be  one.  Alchemy,  necromancy,  black  magic, 
all  these  sciences  not  founded  on  mathematics  and  exact 
experiment  are  delusion  or  deception  —  flags  of  charlatans, 
swelled  but  by  the  bellying  of  the  wind,  after  which  runs  the 
gaping  herd,  applauding  it  knows  not  what.' 

His  eyes  round  and  bright  with  astonishment,  the  alchemist 
hung  on  the  lips  of  the  master,  and  when  Leonardo  stopped 
he  did  not  reply.  Presently,  however,  he  nodded  his  head 
intelligently  and  winked. 

1  Ah  !  ah  !  Messer  Leonardo,  but  this  will  not  serve.  Am 
I  not  of  the  initiated  ?  And  do  we  not  all  know  that  thou 
thyself  art  the  prince  of  alchemists,  the  possessor  of  the  most 
recondite  mysteries  of  nature,  the  new  Hermes  Trismegistus, 
the  new  Prometheus.' 

'I?' 

« Thou  thyself,  Master.' 

•  Call  you  this  jesting,  Messer  Galeotto  ? ' 

*  Contrariwise.  'Tis  you,  Messer  Leonardo,  who  would  jest. 
How  astute  and  impenetrable  you  are !  In  my  time  I  have 
seen  many  who  were  jealous  of  their  secrets  of  science,  never 
an  one  like  you.' 

Leonardo  looked  at  him  searchingly ;  he  strove  in  vain  to 
be  angry.     He  smiled  involuntarily. 

{ Do  you  seriously  believe  in  these  arts  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Do  I  believe  in  them  ?  Messere,  if  God  Himself  came  to 
me  hither  at  this  moment  and  said  to  me  :  "  Galeotto,  there  is 
no  philosopher's  stone," I  should  answer  him  :  "Lord,  even  as 
it  is  true  that  thou  hast  created  me,  so  is  it  true  that  there  is 
that  stone,  and  that  I  shall  find  it." ' 


94  THE  FORERUNNER 

After  this  Leonardo  disputed  no  more,  but  listened  with 
interest  to  the  speculations  of  the  alchemist.  Presently  the 
talk  swerved  to  the  possible  assistance  of  the  Devil  in  the 
occult  sciences ;  the  old  man,  however,  would  none  of  this. 
He  declared  the  Devil  to  be  the  weakest,  the  most  miserable, 
the  most  impotent  of  all  the  creations  of  God ;  he  himself 
had  faith  only  in  the  human  mind,  and  believed  that  to 
science  all  things  were  possible. 

Then  suddenly,  without  any  consciousness  of  an  abrupt 
transition,  and  as  if  playing  with  some  agreeable  and  divert- 
ing recollection,  he  asked  whether  Messer  Leonardo  had 
frequent  apparitions  of  elemental  spirits.  And  when  his 
interlocutor  confessed  to  never  having  seen  any,  Galeotto 
again  refused  to  believe  him;  and  with  relish  told  how 
the  salamander  has  a  body  a  finger  and  a  half  in  length, 
spotted,  thin,  and  harsh,  while  the  sylphide  is  blue  as  the 
sky,  transparent,  and  ethereal.  He  spoke  also  of  the  nymphs 
and  undines  that  live  in  the  rivers  and  the  sea ;  of  the 
gnomes,  pygmies,  and  underground  dwarfs  ;  of  the  durgans 
and  dryads,  dwellers  in  trees,  and  the  rare  spirits  that  inhabit 
precious  stones. 

*  I  cannot  convey  to  you,'  concluded  Galeotto,  'how  bene- 
ficent and  exquisite  are  these  genii ! ' 

'Why,  then,'  asked  Leonardo,  '  do  they  appear  only  to  the 
elect?' 

'Would  you  have  them  appear  to  all?  They  dread 
vulgar  persons,  libertines,  materialists,  drunkards,  and 
gluttons.  They  affect  the  innocent,  the  childlike,  simple 
ones.  They  live  only  where  there  is  no  malice  nor  cunning. 
Timid  and  fearful  as  gazelles  they  take  refuge  from  human 
eyes  in  their  native  elements.' 

And  a  smile  of  infinite  tenderness  illuminated  the  old 
man's  face,  as  if  at  the  memory  of  long-ago  dreams. 

'  What  a  charming  old  fool ! '  thought  Leonardo,  no  longer 
scornful,  but  ready  to  simulate  participation  in  any  scientific 
absurdity  to  please  this  man,  whom  now  he  treated  with 
affectionate  consideration,  like  a  child. 

They  parted  as  friends ;  and  the  moment  he  was  alone  the 
alchemist  plunged  into  new  experiments  with  the  oil  of 
Venus. 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  95 

VI 

All  this  time  Monna  Sidonia,  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
and  Cassandra  sat  before  an  immense  open  fireplace  in  the 
room  below  Messer  Galeotto's  laboratory.  Their  supper  of 
coarse  vegetables  was  stewing  on  the  hearth,  and  the  old 
woman  with  unvarying  motion  of  her  wrinkled  finger  spun 
the  linen  thread  with  her  distaff.  Cassandra  watched  her 
idly,  and  thought : — 

1  Always  the  same  thing.  To-day  as  yesterday,  to-morrow 
as  to-day.  The  cricket  chirps,  the  mouse  squeaks,  the  spindle 
hums.  There  is  a  crackling  in  the  dry  sticks  on  the  hearth, 
and  I  smell  turnips  and  garlic.' 

Presently  the  old  woman  began  prating  in  her  usual  way ; 
saying  that  she  was  not  rich,  whatever  the  people  might  say 
about  her  money-pot  buried  in  the  vineyard.  That  was  all  an 
idle  tale.  The  truth  was,  she  was  ruining  herself  for  Galeotto 
and  his  niece.  She  had  too  much  heart,  that  was  it,  or  she 
would  never  keep  them,  the  two  of  them  hanging  on  to  her 
neck  like  a  pair  of  millstones.  And  of  a  truth  Cassandra 
was  no  longer  a  child,  and  ought  to  be  thinking  of  the  future ; 
her  uncle  would  die  some  day  or  other,  and  leave  her  as  poor 
as  Job.  She  might  at  least  get  a  husband.  She  might  at 
least  accept  the  hand  of  the  rich  horsedealer  at  Abbiategrasso, 
who  had  the  folly  to  run  after  her.  He  was  not  young,  but 
he  was  a  staid,  God-fearing  man  without  any  bees  in  his 
bonnet ;  had  a  good  business  and  a  mill,  and  an  olive-press. 
What  more  did  she  want  ? 

Cassandra  listened  in  silence ;  but  tedium  sat  on  her  like 
a  nightmare;  seized  her  by  the  throat  and  suffocated  her. 
She  felt  an  irresistible  longing  to  break  out  into  rebellious 
weeping  and  rage. 

Monna  Sidonia  fished  in  the  pot  for  a  succulent  turnip, 
mashed  it  up  with  grape-juice,  and  munched  with  apparent 
appetite ;  but  the  young  girl,  submissive  though  with  grow- 
ing desperation,  stretched  herself  and  interlaced  her  fingers 
behind  her  hair.  After  supper  the  old  woman,  like  a  wearied 
Fate,  nodded  over  her  distaff,  and  her  talk  died  down  into 
disconnected  mumbling.  Then  Cassandra  drew  forth  her 
talisman,  and  the  firelight  shining  through  its  purple  depths, 
she  studied  the  figure  of  the  naked  god,  and  her  heart 
filled  with  love  for  the  beautiful  Hellenic  deities. 


96  THE  FORERUNNER 

She  sighed  heavily,  concealed  her  amulet,  and  said  diffi- 
dently : — 

'Monna  Sidonia  !  to-night  at  Barco  diFerraraand  at  Bene- 
vento  there  is  the  gathering.  Aunt !  good  kind  aunt !  we 
will  not  dance.  We  will  go  only  to  see.  We  will  come  back 
at  once.  I  will  do  whatever  you  wish ;  I  will  even  try  to  get 
a  present  out  of  the  horsedealer — only  be  kind  for  once. 
Let  us  fly !  let  us  fly  together— now — at  once ! ' 

And  the  girl's  eyes  sparkled  hungrily.  The  beldame  sur- 
veyed her  curiously ;  then  her  blue  and  withered  lips  parted 
in  a  smile  which  displayed  her  one  tusk-like  yellow  tooth, 
and  her  face  lit  up  with  a  hideous  joy. 

*Ah,  you  wish  it?  Very  much,  do  you?  You  have 
caught  the  taste?  Was  there  ever  such  a  girl?  For  my 
part,  I  am  ready  to  fly  every  night.  But  see  you  here, 
Cassandra,  you  take  the  sin  on  your  own  soul.  To-night  I 
wasn't  even  thinking  of  it.  I  '11  do  it  only  for  your  sake,  out 
of  my  too  great  goodness  of  heart.' 

Without  haste  the  old  woman  went  about  the  room,  shut 
the  shutters,  stuffed  rags  into  the  chinks,  locked  all  doors, 
poured  water  on  the  fire,  lighted  a  black  candle  endued  with 
magical  properties,  and  from  an  iron  locker  took  an  earthen 
vessel  containing  a  pungent  ointment.  She  made  show  of 
being  deliberate  and  sensible,  but  her  hands  shook  as  though 
she  were  drunk,  her  sunken  eyes  were  at  times  turbid,  at 
times  they  sparkled  like  coals.  Cassandra  had  dragged  the 
two  great  troughs  used  for  the  kneading  of  dough  into  the 
centre  of  the  room. 

Now  Monna  Sidonia  stripped  herself,  and  sitting  astride 
of  a  broomstick  on  one  of  the  troughs,  she  smeared  herself 
with  the  ointment  which  she  had  taken  from  the  locker. 
A  hideous  odour  filled  the  room  ;  the  medicament,  infallible 
for  making  witches  fly,  was  composed  of  poisonous  lettuce, 
hemlock,  nightshade,  mandragora,  poppy,  henbane,  serpent's 
blood,  and  the  fat  of  unchristened  children. 

Cassandra  could  not  look  at  the  hag's  deformity.  At  the 
eleventh  hour  she  recoiled. 

'What  are  you  about?'  grumbled  the  crone;  'are  you 
going  to  leave  me  to  fly  alone  ?  Come — make  haste.  Take 
your  clothes  off., 

■  All  right.  But,  Monna  Sidonia,  put  the  light  out.  I  can't 
do  it  in  the  light.' 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  97 

'  Bah !  what  modesty !  Never  mind,  there  '11  be  no 
modesty  on  the  mountain.' 

She  blew  out  the  candle,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  with 
the  left  hand  for  the  pleasing  of  the  devil,  her  master. 

Then  the  girl  rapidly  undressed,  knelt  in  the  trough,  and 
smeared  herself. 

In  the  darkness  the  old  woman  was  heard  mumbling  the 
senseless  disconnected  words  of  an  incantation. 

*  Emen  Hetan,  Emen  Hetan,  Palu,  Baalberi,  Astaroth,  help 
us.     Agora,  Agora,  Patrisa,  come  and  help  us  ! ' 

Cassandra  eagerly  snuffed  the  strong  odour  of  the  unguent. 
Her  skin  burned  ;  her  head  swam  ;  delicious  thrills  ran  down 
her  back.  Red  and  green  interlacing  circles  swam  before 
her  eyes,  she  heard  the  abandoned  stridulous  voice  of  Monna 
Sidonia  as  if  from  afar. 

1  Garr-r  !  Garr-r-r !  Up !  Up !  Don't  knock  your  head  ! 
We  fly!    We  fly!' 

VII 

Forth  from  the  chimney-top  flew  Cassandra  astride  on  the 
soft  hide  of  a  black  goat.  Ravished,  panting,  with  exaltation 
filling  her  soul,  she  screamed  like  a  young  swift,  plunging  for 
the  first  time  through  the  blue  air. 

'Garr-r!     Up!     Up!     We  fly !     We  fly! 

The  deformed  and  withered  body  of  Aunt  Sidonia  flew 
beside  her  on  a  broomstick ;  her  thin  hair  streaming  in  the 
blast. 

'To  the  north!  To  the  north!'  yelled  the  hag,  managing 
her  broomstick  like  a  horse. 

Cassandra  burst  into  peals  of  laughter,  remembering  poor 
Messer  Leonardo  and  his  cumbrous  mechanism. 

Now  she  ascended,  and  the  black  clouds  rolled  together 
beneath  her;  now  they  burned  blue  in  the  flashes  of 
jagged  lightning.  But  above  the  clouds  the  sky  was  clear. 
A  full  moon  shone,  huge  and  round  as  a  millstone,  and 
so  near  she  could  touch  it  with  her  hand.  Affrighted,  she 
guided  the  goat  downwards  again,  and  he  plunged  with  her 
headlong  into  the  void. 

'Devil  of  a  wench,  you'll  break  your  neck,'  screamed 
Sidonia. 

Now  they  were  skimming  so  close  to  the  ground  that  they 
G 


98  THE  FORERUNNER 

brushed  the  rustling  meadow-grasses  ;  will-o'-the-wisps  guided 
their  course  past  old  tree-trunks  gleaming  with  rottenness  ; 
while  the  owl,  the  bittern,  and  the  goatsucker  mourned 
plaintively  among  the  reeds. 

Presently  they  flew  across  the  summits  of  the  Alps,  their 
icy  spars  glittering  in  the  moonshine ;  and  again  they  dropped 
to  the  surface  of  the  sea.  Cassandra,  scooping  water  in  her 
hand,  tossed  it  in  the  air,  and  rejoiced  in  the  sapphire 
splashes. 

Momently  their  pace  increased,  and  they  came  up  with 
and  distanced  fellow-travellers;  a  sorcerer  with  long  grey 
hair,  in  a  tub;  an  ecclesiastic  on  a  muck-rake,  red,  gor- 
bellied,  jovial  as  Silenus  himself;  a  golden-haired,  blue-eyed 
lass  on  a  broom,  a  young  and  red-haired  vampire  on  a 
grunting  porker,  and  a  hundred  others. 

'Whence  come  you,  little  sister?'  cried  Sidonia,  and 
twenty  voices  answered  her. 

'From  Candia!  From  the  Isles  of  Greece!  From 
Valenza !  From  the  Brocken  !  From  Mirandola,  Benevento, 
from  the  caves  and  the  fjords  ! ' 

'Whither  go  ye?' 

1  To  Biterne  !  To  Biterne  !  For  the  marriage  of  the  great 
goat,  the  Buck  of  Biterne.  Fly  !  Fly !  Haste  to  the  supper.' 
And  they  passed  over  the  dreary  plain  like  a  cloud  of  rooks 
on  a  whirlwind.  The  moon  shone  purple,  and  against  it  in 
the  distance  gleamed  the  cross  upon  a  village  church.  The 
vampire  hurled  herself  against  it,  tore  away  the  cross  and  the 
great  bell,  casting  them  far  off  into  the  swamp,  where  they 
sank  with  a  despairing  clang.  The  vampire  barked  like  a 
joyous  dog,  and  the  flaxen-headed  lass  on  the  cantering 
broomstick  clapped  her  little  hands  with  glee. 

VIII 

The  moon  was  now  hidden  by  the  clouds.  Torches 
flared  with  flames  of  green  and  blue,  and  upon  the  chalky 
plateau  the  black  shadows  of  the  dancing  witches  spread  and 
wheeled  and  interlaced  and  disentwined. 

1  Garr-r  !  Garr-r  !  'Tis  the  Sabbath  !  'Tis  the  Sabbath  ! 
From  right  to  left !     From  right  to  left ! ' 

They  flew  and  they  danced  in  their  endless  thousands  like 
the  withered  and  perishing  autumn  leaves.     In  their  midst 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  99 

sat  Hircus  Nocturnus,  the  great  he-goat,  enthroned  upon 
the  mountain. 

1  Garr-r !  Garr-r-r.  Praise  to  the  great  Becco  Notturno ! 
The  Buck  of  Biterne  !  The  Buck  of  Biterne !  Our  wars 
are  ended  !     Rejoice  ye  and  rejoice  ! ' 

There  was  a  screeching  of  pipes  made  of  dead  men  s 
bones ;  the  drum,  stretched  with  the  skin  of  the  hanged, 
was  beaten  with  the  tail  of  a  wolf.  A  loathsome  stew  was 
boiling  in  a  vast  cauldron,  not  seasoned  with  salt,  for  salt 
is  abhorrent  to  the  lord  of  that  place. 

Black  were-cats  were  there  dancing,  lustful  and  emerald- 
eyed  ;  slender  maidens  white  as  lilies  j  a  shapeless  capering 
incubus,  grey  as  a  spider;  shuddering  nuns;  on  a  low  bank, 
a  white-bodied,  plump,  gigantic  witch,  with  a  stupid  and 
good-natured  face,  was  suckling  two  newly-hatched  demons, 
already  greedy  and  malicious.  Three-year-old  children,  not 
yet  admitted  to  the  revelry,  were  feeding  herds  of  toads, 
dressed  as  cardinals,  with  the  sacred  Host  in  their  claws. 

Sidonia  and  Cassandra  joined  the  dance  which  sucked 
them  in  and  whirled  them  away  like  a  howling  storm. 

1  Garr-r-r  !  from  right  to  left !     From  right  to  left ! ' 

Long  wet  whiskers  like  those  of  a  walrus  swept  Cassandra's 
neck ;  a  thin  winding  tail  tickled  her  face,  she  was  impudently 
pinched  and  bitten,  hateful  endearments  were  whispered  in 
her  ears.  She  made  no  resistance;  the  wilder  the  merrier; 
the  more  shameless  the  more  intoxicating. 

Suddenly  petrifaction  fell  on  the  assembly;  all  voices 
were  hushed,  all  movement  was  arrested.  From  the  black 
throne,  surrounded  by  terror,  where  sat  the  great  Unknown, 
came  a  dull  hoarse  roar,  like  the  growl  of  an  earthquake. 

*  Receive  you  my  gifts!  To  the  weak,  my  strength;  my 
pride  to  the  humble  ;  to  the  poor-spirited,  my  wisdom  ;  to  the 
afflicted,  my  joy.     Receive  my  gifts  ! ' 

Then  an  old  man  of  venerable  aspect,  his  grey  beard 
flowing — one  of  the  fathers  of  the  Holy  Inquisition,  at  the 
same  time  patriarch  of  the  sorcerers,  and  celebrant  of  the 
Black  Mass,  chanted  in  solemn  tones : — 

*  Sanctificetur  nomen  tuum  per  universum  mundum  et  libera 
nos  ab  omni  malo !  Be  in  awe,  ye  faithful  ones,  and  fall 
prostrate ! ' 

They  knelt,  falling  on  their  knees  with  a  crash,  and  as 
from  one  voice  resounded  tha-Sorcerer's  Confession: — 


ioo  THE  FORERUNNER 

•  Credo  in  JDeum  patrem  Luciferum^  qui  creavit  caelum  et 
terratn.     Et  infilium  suum  Beelzebub? 

When  the  last  sounds  had  died  away,  and  there  was  renewed 
stillness,  the  same  voice  of  the  Unknown,  deafening  as  an 
earthquake  cried: — 

'Bring  hither  my  bride — my  stainless  dove  !' 

And  the  old  man  with  the  flowing  beard  inquired : — 

'  What  is  the  name  of  thy  bride,  thy  stainless  dove? ' 

1  Madonna  Cassandra  !  Madonna  Cassandra  ! '  roared  the 
great  voice. 

Hearing  the  pronouncement  of  her  name,  the  girl's  blood 
froze  in  her  veins.     Her  hair  stood  erect. 

1  Madonna  Cassandra !  Cassandra ! '  rang  the  cry  from  the 
crowd.  ■  Where  hideth  she ?  Where  is  our  sovereign?  Ave 
Arcisponsa  Cassandra  I ' 

She  hid  her  face  and  would  have  fled ;  but  bony  fingers, 
claws,  antennae,  and  probosces,  and  the  hairy  legs  of  spiders 
seized  her;  and  dragged  her  trembling  before  the  throne. 
The  rank  odour  of  a  goat,  and  a  chill  as  of  death  smote  her ; 
she  closed  her  eyes  in  dread.  Then  he  upon  the  throne 
cried :  *  Come  ! ' 

Her  head  hanging,  she  saw  at  her  feet  a  fiery  cross  gleaming 
through  the  darkness.  She  made  a  supreme  effort,  took  a 
step  forward,  and  raised  her  eyes. 

Then  a  miracle  took  place. 

The  goat's  skin  fell  from  him  as  the  scales  from  a  sloughing 
snake ;  she  was  face  to  face  with  Dionysus  the  Olympian ; 
thyrsis  and  vine-branch  in  his  hands,  a  smile  of  eternal 
joy  upon  his  lips,  the  panther  at  his  feet  pawing  at  the 
grapes. 

And  the  Sabbato  diabolico  changed  into  the  divine  orgies 
of  Bacchus;  the  witches  became  Maenads,  the  monstrous 
demons  were  kindly  goat-footed  Satyrs;  the  chalk  rocks 
were  colonnades  of  shining  marble,  lighted  by  the  sun,  and 
between  them  in  the  distance  was  the  purple  sea.  The 
radiant  gods  of  Hellas,  surrounded  by  an  aureole  of  fire,  were 
gathering  in  the  clouds,  and  the  Satyrs  and  the  Bacchantes, 
beating  their  timbrels,  cutting  their  breasts  with  knives, 
squeezing  the  grape-juice  into  goblets  of  gold,  and  mingling 
it  with  their  blood,  danced  and  circled  and  sang : — 

4  Glory  to  Dionysus  !  Glory  to  Dionysus  1  The  gods  have 
risen  1    Glory  to  the  eternal  gods ! ■ 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  10 1 

And  Bacchus,  the  ever  young,  opened  hii  arms  to 
Cassandra.  His  voice  was  like  thunder,  shaking  earth  and 
sky  as  he  cried  : — 

1  Come  hither  my  bride  !  my  stainless  dove !' 

And  she  sank  into  the  god's  embrace. 


IX 

From  the  distance  sang  the  morning  cry  of  the  cock,  and 
a  sharp  odour  of  fog  and  smoke  greeted  the  nostrils.  Slowly 
through  the  air  came  the  sound  of  a  bell,  and  at  this  sound 
the  mountain  was  convulsed.  Again  the  Maenads  became 
the  monstrous  hags,  the  Satyrs  or  Fauns  were  demons,  and 
the  beautiful  Dionysus  resolved  once  more  into  the  hideous 
and  fetid  Hircus  Nocturnus. 

1  Homewards  !     Fly  !     Escape  ! ' 

c  They  have  stolen  my  muck-rake  ! '  the  gorbellied  ecclesi- 
astic roared  despairingly. 

*  Hog !  return  to  me ! '  screamed  the  red-haired  vampire, 
shivering  and  coughing  in  the  mountain  damp. 

The  setting  moon  once  more  shone  out  from  behind  the 
clouds,  and  in  the  pallid  crimson  of  her  light,  the  frightened 
witches,  swarm  after  swarm,  like  unclean  flies,  streamed  away 
from  the  mountain. 

1  Garr-r !  Garr-r !  Up  from  the  depths  !  Do  not  knock 
your  heads.     Save  yourselves.     Fly  ! ' 

The  Becco  Notturno,  bleating  lamentably,  sank  through 
the  earth,  leaving  the  rotten  and  stifling  odour  of  sulphur. 
And  slow  and  solemn  the  church  bells  sounded  more  trium- 
phantly through  the  purer  air. 


Cassandra  returned  to  herself  in  the  darkened  chamber  of 
the  little  house  by  the  Porta  Vercellina.  She  was  nauseated 
as  if  after  drunkenness.  Her  head  was  like  lead  ;  her  body 
broken  with  weariness. 

The  bell  of  St.  Radegonda  was  tolling  heavily  and  mono- 
tonously. Outside  some  one  was  knocking  insistently ;  some- 
one who  had  already  knocked  more  than  once. 


io2  THE  FORERUNNER 

•  • 

Cassandra  listened,  and  recognised  the  voice  of  her  suitor, 
the  horsedealer  from  Abbiategrasso. 

'For  the  Lord's  love,  open,  Monna  Sidonia !  Monna 
Cassandra !  Nay,  then,  are  ye  all  gone  deaf?  I  am  wet 
through ;  would  ye  have  me  turn  back  through  this  fury  of 
the  elements?' 

The  girl  dragged  herself  to  her  feet,  crept  to  the  shutters, 
and  pulled  out  the  rags  with  which  her  aunt  had  wedged 
them  close.  The  dull  light  of  a  wet  day  streamed  into  the 
room,  and  fell  on  the  naked  crone,  still  sleeping  a  deathly 
sleep  on  the  floor  beside  the  trough,  still  stained  with  the 
unguent,  and  snoring  profoundly. 

Cassandra  peeped  out.  The  weather  was  detestable;  the 
rain  descending  in  torrents.  Through  the  net-work  of  drops 
she  could  see  the  impatient  lover,  beside  him  his  little  ass, 
her  head  dolorously  drooping  as  she  leaned  against  the  shafts 
of  the  cart,  in  which  a  calf,  its  feet  tied  together  mooed 
plaintively,  stretching  forth  its  muzzle. 

The  horsedealer  getting  no  answer  knocked  louder  than 
ever,  and  Cassandra  waited  to  see  what  would  happen.  At 
last  one  of  the  laboratory  windows  opened,  and  the  old 
alchemist  looked  out,  his  face  sullen,  as  it  generally  was  in 
the  early  morning. 

'What's  all  this  noise?'  he  cried;  '  have  you  gone  out  of 
your  five  wits,  you  old  devil?  Go  to  hell  with  you!  Can't 
you  see  we  're  all  asleep  ?     Take  yourself  off ! ' 

'Why  insult  me  thus,  Messer  Galeotto?  I  have  come  on 
an  affair  of  importance.  I  bring  a  present  for  your  exquisite 
niece — a  sucking  calf ' 

'Go  to  the  devil,  blockhead,'  cried  Galeotto,  'you  and 
your  calf! ■ 

And  the  shutter  was  slammed  to.  The  horsedealer  stood 
for  a  moment  dumbfounded;  then,  recovering  himself,  he 
knocked  again,  violently,  as  if  he  would  smash  the  door  with 
his  fists. 

The  donkey's  head  droooed  still  lower,  the  rain  pouring  in 
streams  off  her  long  ears. 

'  God !  how  dull  it  all  is ! '  murmured  Cassandra,  closing 
her  eyes.  And  she  thought  of  the  frenzy  of  the  Sabbath,  the 
transformation  of  the  Becco  Notturno  into  Dionysus,  the 
resurrection  of  the  old  gods,  and  she  asked  herself: — 

'  Was  it  reality  or  dream?     In  good  sooth,  'twas  a  dream, 


THE  WITCHES'  SABBATH— 1494  103 

and  this  is  the  reality  !     After  Sunday  always  there  is — just 
Monday!' 

'Open!  open!'  yelled  the  horsedealer,  hoarse  and  des- 
perate. And  the  rain-drops  plashed  monotonously  in  the 
miry  pools,  the  calf  bleated  piteously,  and  the  bell  of  the 
neighbouring  convent  tolled  on,  with  even  and  melancholy 
strokes. 


BOOK    V 

THY   WILL   BE   DONE 1 494 

•  0  mirabile  giustizia  di  te,  Prima  Motore,  tu  non  at  voluto  maneare  a 
nesmna  potenzia  Vordine  e  qualita  de  suoi  necessari  effetti!  O  Stupenda 
Necessita.' — Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(O  admirable  Justice  of  Thee,  Thou  Prime  Mover  !  To  no  force  hast 
Thou  permitted  lack  of  the  order  and  quality  of  its  necessary  effects.  O 
Thrice- Marvellous  Necessity !) 

'  Thy  Will  be  done  on  earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven. ' — Paternoster. 


Corbolo  the  shoemaker,  a  citizen  of  Milan,  having  returned 
home  one  night  over  merry,  received  from  his  wife,  as  he 
said,  '  more  blows  than  would  have  driven  a  tired  ass  from 
Milan  to  Rome.'  The  next  morning,  when  his  spouse  had 
gone  to  her  neighbour's  to  fetch  the  black  pudding,  Corbolo 
rooted  some  concealed  coins  out  of  his  pouch,  left  the  shop 
to  his  apprentice,  and  went  off  for  a  drink,  to  recover 
himself. 

His  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  threadbare  breeches,  he 
sauntered  along  the  narrow  street — so  narrow  that  a  horse- 
man must  needs  prick  the  foot-passengers  with  his  spurs — 
and  sniffed  the  eternal  smell  of  oil,  rotten  eggs,  sour  wine, 
and  mouldy  cellars.  Whistling  a  tune,  he  looked  up  at  the 
narrow  strip  of  blue  sky  between  the  roofs,  and  at  the  many- 
coloured  rags  and  torn  garments  stretched  across  the  lane  on 
lines  that  they  might  be  dried  in  the  sun,  and  solaced 
himself  with  his  favourite  proverb  (of  which,  however,  he 
never  took  the  advice),  ■  Mala  femina,  buona  femina,  vuol 
has  tone? 

To  shorten  his  road   he   passed   through  the    cathedral, 

104 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  105 

which  was  still  in  process  of  construction.  Here  there  was 
noise  and  bustle  as  in  a  market-place.  From  door  to  door, 
notwithstanding  the  fine  of  five  soldi  imposed  upon  intruders, 
there  passed  persons  carrying  wine,  baskets,  cases,  trunks, 
trays,  planks,  beams,  bundles,  some  even  leading  asses  and 
mules.  The  priests  were  praying  and  chanting ;  lamps 
burned  on  the  altars,  and  murmurs  came  from  the  Confes- 
sional ;  yet  the  boys  played  at  leap-frog,  the  dogs  barked  and 
fought,  and  sturdy  beggars  jostled  each  other  in  the  quest  for 
alms.  Corbolo  stood  for  a  space  in  the  crowd,  listening  with 
sly  amusement  to  a  dispute  between  two  monks,  a  Franciscan, 
and  a  Domenican,  on  the  comparative  claims  of  St.  Francis 
and  St.  Catharine  to  occupy  the  seat  in  heaven  which  had 
been  left  vacant  by  the  fall  of  Lucifer. 

Corbolo's  eyes  blinked  as  he  came  out  of  the  cathedral 
gloom  into  the  strong  sunlight  of  the  Piazza  dell'  Arrengo. 
This  was  the  liveliest  part  of  Milan,  crowded  with  the  booths 
of  small  vendors,  and  so  over-filled  with  packing-cases  and 
rubbish,  that  foot  passengers  could  hardly  make  their  way. 
From  time  immemorial  these  booths  had  lumbered  the 
square,  and  no  laws  nor  penalties  could  expel  them. 

*  Salad  of  Valtellina !  lemons!  oranges!  artichokes!  aspa- 
ragus ! '  cried  the  vegetable-seller. 

The  rag-wives  babbled  and  cackled  like  brood-hens.  A 
donkey,  almost  concealed  under  a  mountain  of  grapes, 
oranges,  cauliflowers,  fennel,  beetroot,  tomatoes  and  onions, 
brayed  in  lacerating  tones : — 

*Hee — ho — Hee — ho.'  While  his  driver  lustily  thumped 
his  shrunken  sides,  and  yelled  forth  his  guttural : — 

•  Arri — Arri ! ' 

A  long  string  of  blind  persons  with  sticks,  and  guides, 
chanted  a  doleful  and  tedious  supplication.  A  street-dentist, 
his  hat  ornamented  with  a  chaplet  of  teeth,  was  standing 
over  a  man  whose  head  he  held  between  his  knees,  and  with 
the  rapid  movements  of  a  juggler,  was  drawing  his  teeth  with 
huge  pincers.  Children  were  spinning  tops  under  the  feet  of 
the  pedestrians,  and  teasing  a  Jew  with  offers  of  a  pig's  head  ; 
Farfanicchio,  the  leader  of  the  scamps,  had  let  a  mouse  loose 
among  the  market-women.  It  rushed  up  the  ample  petti- 
coats of  Barbacchia,  the  fruit-seller,  who  jumped  up  as  if 
she  had  been  scalded,  cursing  the  ragamuffins,  and  shaking 
her  garments  regardless  of  propriety. 


io6  THE  FORERUNNER 

A  porter,  carrying  a  pig's  carcase,  turned  round  suddenly  to 
see  the  fun,  and  terrified  the  horse  of  Messer  Gabbadeo,  the 
surgeon;  it  reared  and  plunged,  and  overturned  a  whole  pile 
of  kitchenware  in  the  booth  beside  it;  saucepans,  frying-pans, 
skimmers,  graters,  rolled  over  with  a  deafening  crash ;  the 
horse  bolted  and  carried  away  the  terrified  surgeon,  his  arms 
round  its  neck,  his  great  bass  voice  alternately  imploring  God 
and  the  devil  to  rescue  him.  The  dogs  barked,  curious  faces 
were  thrust  from  windows ;  laughter,  cries,  curses,  whistling, 
shouting  rose  on  all  sides ;  and  the  donkeys  brayed  from 
every  side  of  the  square. 

Watching  this  diverting  spectacle,  the  shoemaker  said  to 
himself  philosophically  : — 

'  The  world  would  be  a  good  place  enough,  if  it  were  not 
for  the  women,  who  devour  their  husbands  as  rust  devours 
iron/ 

Then  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  he  looked  up  at  the 
vast  unfinished  pile  surrounded  with  scaffolding.  This  was 
the  great  cathedral,  the  magnificent  temple  which  Milan  was 
erecting  in  honour  of  the  Birth  of  the  Virgin.  All,  small  and 
great,  had  contributed  to  the  shrine.  The  queen  of  Cyprus 
had  sent  a  precious  cloth  embroidered  with  gold.  Caterina, 
the  old  rag-woman,  had  laid  on  the  altar  of  the  Virgin  her 
only  cloak,  worth  twenty  soldi.  Corbolo,  who  from  his 
childhood  had  watched  the  progress  of  the  building,  saw  this 
morning  a  new  pinnacle,  and  rejoiced. 

All  around  was  heard  the  tapping  of  mallets  and  hammers. 
The  immense  blocks  of  sparkling  marble  brought  from  the 
quarries  on  the  Lago  Maggiore  were  landed  on  the  wharf  at 
Laghetto  de  Santo  Stefano,  not  far  from  the  Ospedale 
Maggiore,  and  were  still  arriving  at  the  building;  cranes 
creaked  and  rattled  their  chains,  iron  saws  grated  on  the 
marble,  the  workmen  swarmed  around  the  scaffolding  like 
flies.  And  daily  the  great  temple  was  growing,  with  its  count- 
less spires,  its  belfries  and  turrets  of  pure  white  gleaming 
against  the  azure  heavens ;  a  perpetual  hymn  raised  by  the 
people  of  Milan  to  the  glory  of  Maria  Nascente. 

II 

Corbolo  descended  by  steep  stairs  from  the  piazza  to  a  cool 
arched  cellar  set  with  wine  casks,  of  which  the  master  was  a 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  107 

German  named  Tibaldo.  The  shoemaker  greeted  the  com- 
pany, and  sitting  down  by  his  friend  Scarabullo  the  tin-man, 
ordered  a  flask  of  wine  and  hot  pastry  flavoured  with  thyme; 
then  he  drank  a  long  slow  draught,  filled  his  mouth,  and 
said: 

'Scarabullo,  if  you  desire  wisdom,  take  unto  yourself  no 
wife.' 

'Why  not?  '  demanded  Scarabullo. 

'  Because,  friend,  to  marry  is  to  thrust  your  hand  into  a  bag 
of  serpents  in  order  to  draw  out  an  eel.  Better  have  the 
gout  than  a  wedded  wife,  Scarabullo.' 

At  the  table  beside  them,  surrounded  by  a  hungry  and 
credulous  crowd,  Mascarello,  the  jolly  goldsmith,  was  singing 
the  praises  of  a  fabulous  land,  where  the  vines  are  hung  with 
sausages,  and  a  goose  and  a  gosling  together  cost  a  single 
penny ;  where  there  are  mountains  of  cheese  ready  grated,  and 
gnocchi  and  macaroni  are  cooked  in  the  fat  of  capons  and 
thrown  to  him  who  asketh  ;  and  vernaccia,  the  best  white  wine, 
into  which  enters  not  one  drop  of  water,  springs  from  the  soil 
in  a  natural  fountain.  A  little  man  named  Gorgoglio,  a  glass- 
blower,  at  this  moment  came  running  into  the  tavern  :  by 
reason  of  the  king's  evil,  his  eyes  were  half-shut,  like  those  of  a 
new-born  puppy.  He  was  bibulous  and  a  great  lover  of 
talk. 

1  Sirs,  sirs  ! '  he  cried,  raising  his  hat  and  wiping  his  stream- 
ing face, '  I  have  seen  the  Frenchmen  ! ' 

1  Gorgoglio,  you  dream.     'Tis  impossible  they  be  here  yet.' 

'I' faith,  they  be  here;  they  are  at  Pavia.  Let  me  but 
breathe!  'Tis  not  weather  for  running,  and  I  have  run  the 
whole  course  to  be  first  with  the  news.' 

1  Take  my  bottle.  Drink  and  recount :  of  what  sort  be 
these  French?' 

1 A  bad  sort,  friends  ;  a  very  bad  sort.  Heaven  defend  us 
from  them !  trust  not  your  fingers  in  their  mouths,  friends. 
Choleric,  savage  infidels,  like  ferocious  brutes ;  in  a  word, 
barbarians.  They  carry  arquebuses  eight  braccia  long,  parti- 
sans of  brass,  iron  bombards  which  belch  stones ;  their  horses 
are  sea-monsters,  shaggy,  with  docked  ears  and  tails.' 

'  Be  they  many?' 

1  Ay,  a  crowd  ;  they  beset  the  plain  as  locusts ;  you  can  see 
no  end  to  them.  The  Lord  hath  sent  them  for  the  chastise- 
ment of  our  sins,  this  Black  Death,  these  northern  devils.' 


108  THE  FORERUNNER 

'But  why,  Gorgoglio,  speak  thus  ill  of  them?'  asked 
Mascarello ;  '  they  come  as  our  friends — our  allies.' 

'  Allies  !  Hold  your  peace.  Look  after  your  pockets,  say 
I,  for  that  kind  of  ally  is  worse  than  an  enemy.  He  '11  buy  the 
horn  and  steal  the  bullock.' 

1  Rave  not,  Gorgoglio.  Expound  simply  why  you  hold  these 
French  inimical.' 

1  Because  they  trample  down  our  crops  ;  because  they  fell 
our  trees,  carry  off  our  beasts,  ravish  our  women.  Their  king 
is  a  baboon ;  no  soul  behind  his  teeth ;  but  he  is  a  great  lover 
of  women.  He  carries  a  book,  pictures  of  our  handsomest 
women.  And  they  say  that,  God  helping  them,  they  will  not 
leave  a  maid  between  Milan  and  Naples.' 

'The  villains!' cried  Scarabullo,  thumping  with  his  fist  so 
that  the  glasses  rang. 

'  And  our  Moro,'  continued  Gorgoglio,  '  dances  on  his  hind 
legs  to  the  sound  of  the  French  pipe.  And  they  don't  count 
us  to  be  men,  neither.  "  You,"  they  say,  making  their  grimaces, 
"you  are  all  thieves  and  assassins.  You  have  poisoned  your 
rightful  duke,  you  have  murdered  an  innocent  boy.  For  this 
God  punishes  you  and  gives  us  your  land."  And  we,  friends, 
are  receiving  them  into  our  arms  and  feeding  them  ! ' 

'  These  be  old  wives'  tales,  Gorgoglio.' 

'  Blind  me,  cut  out  my  tongue  if  I  speak  not  the  truth ! 
Nor  have  I  told  all.  Hearken,  signori  miet,  to  what  they  have 
the  audacity  to  say.  They  say  "  We  are  destined  to  overcome 
all  the  peoples  of  Italy,  to  subdue  all  the  seas  and  the  nations 
of  the  sea,  to  destroy  the  grand  Turk,  and  plant  the  true  cross 
on  the  Mount  of  Olives  in  Jerusalem ;  then  we  will  come  back 
to  you,  and  we  will  execute  on  you  the  fury  of  God.  And  if 
you  submit  not  yourselves,  your  name  shall  be  wiped  off  from 
the  face  of  the  earth."    That 's  what  they  say ! ' 

*  'Tis  ill  news,'  sighed  Mascarello  the  goldsmith.  '  Unheard- 
of  news!' 

The  rest  were  silent. 

Then  Fra  Timotea,  the  lean  Domenican,  who  had  been 
disputing  in  the  cathedral  with  Fra  Cipolla  about  the  saints 
in  glory,  raised  his  hands  to  heaven  and  said  solemnly : — 

'Such  were  the  words  of  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  that 
greatprophetofthe  Lord.  "Behold,"  said  he, "the  man  cometh 
who  is  destined  to  conquer  Italy  without  drawing  the  sword 
from   the   scabbard.      O   Florence  !    O  Rome  !     O   Milan ! 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  109 

Past  is  the  hour  of  feasting  and  of  song  !  Repent  ye,  repent ! 
The  blood  of  Gian  Galeazzo,  the  blood  of  Abel  which  was 
spilt  by  Cain,  crieth  for  vengeance  before  the  throne  of  God." ' 

III 

At  this  moment  a  brace  of  soldiers  came  in. 

'  The  French  !  the  French  !  See  ! '  exclaimed  Gorgoglio, 
nudging  his  companions. 

One  of  the  newcomers  was  a  Gascon ;  young,  tall,  and 
shapely,  with  a  handsome  impudent  face  adorned  by  red 
moustachios;  a  cavalry  sergeant  named  Bonnivart.  The 
other  old,  fat,  bull-necked,  red-faced,  swollen-eyed,  ear-ringed, 
was  a  gunner  from  Picardy  named  Groguillioche.  Both  were 
a  little  drunk. 

'Sacrement  dc  tautel /'  said  the  sergeant  slapping  the  others 
on  the  back.  'Shall  we  at  last  find  a  mug  of  good  wine 
in  this  accursed  town?  The  sour  stuff  of  this  Lombardy 
burns  my  throat  like  vinegar.'  And  stretching  himself  on  a 
bench,  and  throwing  a  contemptuous  glance  at  the  company, 
he  rapped  with  his  knuckles,  and  shouted  in  bad  Italian : — 

*  White  wine,  dry,  your  oldest;  and  brain-sausage  for  the 
first  course  ! ' 

'  You  are  right,  comrade,'  said  Groguillioche ;  '  when  I 
think  of  our  wine  of  Burgundy,  of  the  precious  Beaune 
gold  as  my  Lison's  hair,  my  heart  bursts  with  melancholy. 
Most  true  is  it:  "Like  people,  like  wine."  Let  us  drink, 
comrade,  to  the  prosperity  of  our  France.' 

*  Du  grand  Dieu  soit  mauldit  a  outrance 
Qui  mal  vouldroit  au  royaume  de  France  ! ' 

'What  say  they?'  murmured  Scarabullo  into  Gorgoglio's 
ear.' 

'  Scurvy  talk ! '  said  the  latter.  '  They  praise  their  own 
wine,  and  praise  not  ours.' 

'Just  look  at  those  two  French  cocks,' grumbled  the  tin- 
man; '  my  hand  itches  to  be  at  them.' 

Meanwhile  Tibaldo,  the  German  host,  with  fat  belly  on 
thin  legs,  and  a  formidable  bunch  of  keys  at  his  leathern 
girdle,  drew  from  the  cask  half  brentas  of  wine,  aad  served 
them  to  the  foreigners  in  an  earthenware  jug,  looking  most 
suspiciously  at  his  guests.     Bonnivart  drank  his  potion  at  one 


no  THE  FORERUNNER 

draught,  and  found  it  excellent :  none  the  less,  he  spat, 
making  a  face  of  disgust.  Just  then  Lotte,  Tibaldo's  daughter 
passed  by ;  a  slim,  flaxen-haired  little  lass,  with  kind  blue  eyes 
like  her  father's.  The  Gascon  nudged  his  comrade,  twirled 
his  moustaches  seductively,  drank,  and  trolled  out  a  song,  to 
which  Groguillioche  added  a  husky  chorus : — 

'  Charles  fera  si  grandes  batailles 
Qu'il  conquerra  les  Itailles, 
En  Jerusalem  entrera 
Et  mont  Olivet  montera.' 

Presently  Lotte  passed  them  again,  modestly  dropping  her 
eyes,  but  the  sergeant  caught  her  by  the  waist  and  tried  to  pull 
her  to  his  knee.  She  pushed  him  away,  broke  loose,  and  fled. 
He  jumped  up,  caught  her  and  kissed  her  cheek,  his  lips  still 
wet  with  wine.  The  girl  screamed,  dropped  the  pitcher  she 
was  carrying,  and  struck  the  Frenchman  so  hard  a  blow  that 
for  a  moment  he  was  stunned,  at  which  there  was  a  general 
laugh. 

*  Well  done,  wench ! '  cried  the  goldsmith.  ■  By  St.  Gervaso, 
I  ne'er  saw  a  heartier  smack,  nor  one  more  seasonably 
applied.' 

Groguillioche  tried  to  restrain  his  companion. 

*  Let  her  alone.     Don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,'  he  said. 
But  the  Gascon  was  flown  with  wine,  and,  laughing  with  a 

laugh  that  was  but  at  one  side  of  his  mouth,  he  cried  : — 

'That's  your  way,  is  it,  my  beauty?  Ventre  bleu!  next 
time  it  shall  not  be  on  your  cheek,  but  fair  on  your  lips.' 

Upsetting  the  table,  he  sprang  after  her,  captured  her,  and 
would  have  executed  his  threat,  had  not  the  powerful  hand  of 
Scarabullo  seized  him  by  the  throat. 

'  Ha !  son  of  a  dog  !  Hideous  mug  of  a  Frenchman  !  I  '11 
teach  you  how  to  insult  the  girls  of  Milan  ! '  and  he  shook  his 
victim  backwards  and  forwards,  nearly  choking  him. 

'Sacrebleu!  Sacrebleu! '  roared  Groguillioche  infuriated ; 
*  hands  off,  ruffian  !  Vive  la  France/  St  Denis  et  St.  George!1 
His  sword  was  out,  and  prompt  to  be  thrust  into  the  tinman's 
back,  but  Mascarello,  Gorgoglio,  Maso,  and  the  rest  inter- 
vening, tied  his  hands.  Now  was  utter  confusion ;  tables 
overset,  benches  smashed,  casks  rolling,  shards  of  smashed 
pitchers  under  the  feet,  everywhere  pools  of  wine.  Seeing 
blood,  naked  swords,  and  brandished  knives,  Tibaldo  rushed 
into  the  street,  and,  in  a  voice  fit  to  fill  the  square,  yelled : — 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  in 

'Assassination  !  Homicide  !  The  French  are  sacking  the 
town !  ■ 

At  once  the  market  bell  rang  forth  and  was  answered  by 
its  brother  of  the  Broletto.  The  dealers  closed  their  shops. 
Fruit-sellers  and  rag-wives  ran  hither  and  thither  packing 
their  goods. 

1  San  Gervaso  and  San  Protaso  !  our  protecting  saints ; 
lend  us  aid ! '  cried  the  fat  vegetable-woman  with  the  tremen- 
dous voice. 

'What  is  on  foot?  What  is  happening?  Is  it  a  con- 
flagration ? ' 

'  Down  !     Down  with  the  Frenchmen  ! ' 

Farfannichio,  the  naughty  boy,  danced  with  delight,  whist- 
ling and  yelling. 

'Down  with  the  Frenchmen!  Down  with  the  French- 
men ! ' 

Guards  and  soldiers  now  appeared  on  the  scene,  mighty 
with  arquebuses  and  pikes.  They  were  just  in  time  to  rescue 
Groguillioche  and  Bonnivart  from  death  at  the  hands  of  the 
mob.  Laying  hands  right  and  left,  they  arrested  amongst 
others  Corbolo  the  shoemaker. 

His  wife,  who  had  run  up  on  sound  of  the  tumult,  now 
wrung  her  hands  piteously,  and  wailed  : — 

'  For  pity's  sake,  let  him  go  !  Have  mercy  on  my  poor  little 
husband !  I  will  chastise  him  at  home,  and  never  allow  him 
into  a  street  squabble  again.  Believe  me,  Messeri,  he  is  a 
perfect  natural,  and  not  worth  the  rope  you  would  hang  him 
with.' 

But  Corbolo,  hanging  his  head,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
and  pretending  not  to  hear  these  intercessions,  hid  behind 
the  stout  person  of  one  of  the  guards,  who  seemed  to  him  far 
less  terrible  than  his  spouse. 

IV 

Right  above  the  scaffolding  of  the  unfinished  cathedral,  up 
a  narrow  stair  of  rope  to  one  of  the  slender  pinnacles,  not  far 
from  the  principal  tower,  a  certain  young  mason  clomb,  bear- 
ing a  small  statue  of  St.  Catharine,  to  be  fixed  on  the  very  top 
of  the  little  spire.  Around  him  rose  a  perfect  forest  of  pinnacles, 
sharp-pointed  like  stalactites  ;  spires,  flying  arches,  stone  lace- 
work  of  unexampled  flowers  and  foliage,  prophets,  martyrs, 


ii2  THE  FORERUNNER 

and  angels,  the  grinning  masks  of  devils,  monstrous  birds, 
sirens,  harpies,  dragons  with  scaly  wings  and  gaping  mouths, 
every  sort  of  gargoyle  at  the  terminals  of  the  water-pipes. 
All  was  of  marble  very  pure  and  white,  upon  which  the 
shadows  showed  blue  as  smoke,  the  whole  suggesting  a 
winter  wood  clothed  in  sparkling  frost.  It  was  quiet,  save 
that  the  swallows  and  swifts  made  joyous  cries  as  they  con- 
tinually circled  above  and  around  the  building.  The  hum  of 
the  crowd  in  the  square  reached  the  young  mason  like  the 
low  murmur  of  an  anthill.  At  times  he  fancied  organ-notes 
and  prayerful  sighs  rose  from  the  interior  of  the  temple  as 
from  the  depth  of  its  stony  heart ;  and  then  it  seemed  as  if 
the  whole  vast  edifice  breathed  and  grew  and  heaved  to  the 
sky  like  the  eternal  praise  of  the  birth  of  Mary;  like  the  glad 
hymn  of  all  ages  and  of  all  peoples  to  the  Immaculate  Virgin. 
Suddenly  the  hum  from  the  square  increased  in  volume, 
and  an  uproar  became  plain  to  the  ear.  The  mason  paused 
in  his  work  and  looked  down.  Then  his  head  swam  and  his 
eyes  grew  dim.  He  felt  the  edifice  rocking  under  him,  and 
the  slender  pinnacle  towards  which  he  was  climbing  bent  like 
a  reed. 

*  It  is  all  over ! '  he  said.  *  I  am  falling.  Lord  receive  my 
spirit.' 

He  clung  desperately  to  the  rope,  closed  his  eyes,  and 
murmured : — 

1  Ave  Maria,  piena  di  grazia.f 

Then  he  felt  more  at  ease.  From  above  swept  a  breath  of 
cool  wind ;  he  recovered  himself,  collected  his  strength  and 
climbed  higher,  listening  no  longer  to  the  humming  of  earth, 
but  ascending  towards  the  serene  and  quiet  heaven,  saying 
with  great  unction : — 

*  Ave,  dolce  Maria,  di  grazia  piena? 

At  this  moment,  traversing  the  broad  marble  roof,  came 
the  members  of  the  building  committee,  Council  of  the 
Fabric,  architects  both  native  and  foreign,  summoned  by  the 
duke  to  consult  about  the  Tiburio,  the  principal  tower,  which 
was  to  rise  even  higher  than  the  cupola.  Among  them  was 
Leonardo  da  Vinci;  he  had  submitted  his  plan,  but  the 
council  had  rejected  it  as  too  daring,  too  extravagant,  and  not 
sufficiently  in  accord  with  the  traditions  of  church  architec- 
ture. The  council  quarrelled  over  the  matter,  and  could  not 
arrive  at  an  agreement.     Some  said  the  building  had  been 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  113 

commenced  by  ignorant  people,  and  that  the  inner  columns 
were  not  stable  enough  to  carry  the  Tiburio  and  all  the  lesser 
towers  and  pinnacles.  According  to  others  the  cathedral  was 
like  to  stand  firm  till  Doomsday. 

Leonardo  took  no  part  in  the  dispute,  but  stood  aside, 
silent  and  alone.  One  of  the  workmen  approached  and 
handed  him  a  letter. 

1  Messere,'  he  said,  ■  it  has  been  brought  to  Your  Magnifi- 
cence by  a  messenger  from  Pavia.' 

Leonardo  read  the  letter : — 

1  Leonardo,  I  need  thee.    Come  to  me  at  once.    October  14. 

Gian  Galeazzo,  the  Duke.' 

The  Master  excused  himself  to  his  fellow -councillors, 
descended  to  the  square,  mounted,  and  rode  off  to  the  Castle 
of  Pavia,  a  few  hours'  distant  from  Milan. 


In  the  great  park  the  chestnuts,  elms,  and  maples  glowed 
golden  and  purple  under  an  autumn  sun.  Slowly,  like  dead 
butterflies,  the  leaves  dropped  from  the  branches.  There 
was  no  bubbling  of  water  in  the  grass-grown  fountains. 
Asters  were  withering  in  neglected  flower-beds. 

Approaching  the  castle  Leonardo  saw  a  dwarf;  it  was 
Gian  Galeazzo's  old  jester,  the  only  servant  who  had 
remained  faithful  to  the  dying  duke.  Recognising  the 
painter,  he  advanced  running  and  leaping. 

'How  is  His  Highness?'  asked  Leonardo. 

The  dwarf  made  no  reply,  only  waved  his  hands  with  a 
gesture  of  despair ;  Leonardo  directed  his  horse  to  the  prin- 
cipal entrance,  but  the  other  stopped  him. 

*  Nay,  not  by  this  road/ said  he,  'it  hath  too  many  eyes. 
His  Highness  prays  you  to  come  secretly,  for  Madonna 
Isabella  would  forbid  your  entry  did  she  know  of  it.  Come 
by  this  path.' 

They  entered  by  a  corner  tower,  then  mounted  a  stair  and 
traversed  apartments  once  magnificent  but  now  gloomy  and 
deserted.  The  gilded  Cordovan  leather  had  been  torn  from 
the  walls;  the  throne  and  its  silken  canopy  was  hung  with 
cobwebs;  autumn  winds  had  blown  yellow  leaves  through  the 
broken  window  panes. 

'  Thieves !  ruffians  ! '  muttered  the  d  warf,  pointing  out  to 


ii4  THE  FORERUNNER 

his  companion  these  marks  of  desolation.  'Believe  me, 
Messere,  eyes  cannot  bear  to  look  on  the  things  done  here. 
I  would  have  fled  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  were  it 
not  that  my  lord  hath  no  one  to  look  to  but  me,  his  ancient 
deformity.     This  way,  I  pray  you,  this  way.' 

Opening  a  door  he  introduced  Leonardo  into  a  close  dark 
room,  heavy  with  the  odour  of  drugs. 

VI 

At  that  moment  Gian  Galeazzo  was  being  bled :  accord- 
ing to  the  rules  of  surgery  the  operation  was  performed  by 
candle-light,  and  with  closed  shutters.  The  surgeon,  or  rather 
the  barber,  a  timid  old  man,  was  opening  the  vein,  and  his 
assistant  held  the  brass  basin  ;  the  physician,  a  man  of  grave 
and  impenetrable  countenance,  wearing  spectacles  and  a  hood 
of  dark  purple  velvet  and  squirrel's  fur,  merely  watched,  for 
to  handle  surgical  instruments  was  derogatory  to  the  dignity 
of  a  Doctor  of  Medicine. 

1  Before  night  he  shall  be  bled  again,'  said  the  great  man 
when  the  arm  had  been  bandaged  and  the  duke  was  restored 
to  his  pillows. 

1  Doming  magister]  objected  the  barber  respectfully,  ■  were 
it  not  wiser  to  wait?  The  patient  is  weakened,  and  an 
excessive  drain  of  blood • 

But  he  stopped  short,  for  the  doctor  looked  at  him  with 
freezing  irony. 

"Tis  time  you  knew  that  of  the  twenty-four  pounds  of  blood 
in  the  human  body  you  may  let  twenty  without  damage.  I 
have  bled  sucking  babes  and  seen  them  recover.' 

Leonirdo  listened  to  this  conversation,  but  reminded  him- 
self that  to  dispute  with  doctors  was  vain  as  to  argue  with 
alchemists.  He  held  his  peace  till  the  empirics  had  departed 
and  the  dwarf  had  covered  the  patient  and  shaken  his  pillows. 
Above  the  bed  hung  a  little  green  parrot  in  a  cage ;  cards  and 
dice  strewed  the  table.  On  it  was  also  a  glass  with  gold-fish, 
at  the  duke's  feet  slept  a  little  white  dog, — all  the  faithful 
servant's  last  attempts  at  ministering  to  his  master's  amusement. 

'  Has  the  letter  been  sent  ? '  asked  the  sick  man,  not  opening 
his  eyes. 

'Excellency,  Messer  Leonardo  has  come.  We  waited, 
fearing  to  disturb  your  Grace's  slumber.' 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  115 

A  feeble  smile  illuminated  the  duke's  countenance.  He 
tried  to  raise  himself. 

'  Master,  at  last !  And  I  had  been  fearing  you  would  not 
come ! ' 

Gian  Galeazzo  took  the  artist's  hand  in  his,  and  a  faint 
colour  spread  over  his  beautiful  young  face:— he  was  but  four- 
and-twenty.  The  dwarf  left  the  room  to  keep  guard  at  the 
door. 

'Friend,'  began  the  duke,  'you  have  heard  the  slander?' 

'Which  slander,  my  lord  ?  '  asked  the  painter. 

'  If  you  know  not  which,  'tis  that  you  have  heard  nothing, 
and  it  is  not  worth  the  trouble  of  telling  you.  Yet  no,  I  will 
tell  you,  that  we  may  have  our  mock  at  it  together.     They 

say '     He  paused,  looked  the  artist  full  in  the  eyes,  and, 

smiling  calmly,  completed  the  phrase ;  '  they  say  'tis  you  have 
murdered  me.' 

Leonardo  thought  him  delirious,  but  he  repeated : — 

'Just  that.  They  say  'tis  you  have  murdered  me.  Three 
weeks  ago  II  Moro  and  his  Beatrice  sent  me  a  basket  of 
delectable  peaches.  But  Madonna  Isabella  says  that  from 
the  moment  I  tasted  them  I  have  pined  away ;  that  in  your 
garden  you  have  a  peach-tree  which  bears  poison.' 

'In  very  truth,'  assented  Leonardo,  'I  have  such  a  tree.' 

'  Atnico  miot  can  it  be  possible ' 

'  Nay;  not  if  the  fruit  be  really  that  from  my  garden.  I  can 
explain  the  reason  of  these  rumours.  To  study  the  effect  of 
poison  upon  trees,  I  inoculated  my  peach-tree  with  arsenic, 
and  warned  Zoroastro,  my  disciple,  to  beware  of  the  fruit. 
Probably  he  was  over  hasty  in  relating  the  fact,  for  as  matter 
of  truth  the  experiment  failed  and  the  peaches  have  proved 
innocuous.' 

'  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it ! '  cried  the  duke  with  relief.  '  No 
one  is  guilty  of  my  death.  Yet  here  each  one  is  suspecting 
the  other,  and  hating  and  fearing  him  !  If  it  were  but 
possible  to  speak  openly,  as  you  and  I  speak  to  each  other 
at  this  instant !  My  uncle  is  suspected  of  the  deed ;  but  I 
know  him  to  be  a  kindly  man,  though  timorous  and  weak. 
What  interest  could  he  have  in  my  death  when  I  myself 
am  willing  to  give  him  my  throne?  I  want  nothing;  I 
would  gladly  have  left  all  these  people  and  lived  in  retire- 
ment and  liberty  with  a  few  chosen  friends.  I  would  have 
been  a  monk,  or  thy  pupil,  Leonardo.     But  no  one  will 


n6  THE  FORERUNNER 

believe  that  I  do  not  desire  power.  Why  have  they  done  this 
evil?  Dio  mio !  they  have  not  poisoned  me,  but  they  i 
poisoned  themselves,  poor  blind  ones  !  with  the  harmless 
fruit  of  thy  harmless  tree.  I  have  grieved  over  perverse  fate 
which  makes  me  to  die  young,  but  now  I  am  calm,  I  am  at 
ease,  Master,  as  though  on  a  scorching  day  I  had  thrown  off 
dusty  clothes  and  cast  myself  into  pure  water.  I  know  not 
how  to  tell  thee,  dear  friend,  but  of  a  surety  thou  dost  com- 
prehend, thou  who  art  thyself ' 

Leonardo  smiled  serenely,  and  pressed  the  poor  wasted 
hand,  but  did  not  answer. 

■  I  knew  that  you  would  understand,'  continued  the  invalid 
with  animation.  '  Do  you  remember  how  once  you  said 
to  me  that  the  study  of  those  eternal  laws  which  govern 
the  vicissitudes  of  nature  conducts  men  to  humility  and  to 
great  tranquillity  of  soul  ?  Your  phrase  struck  me  even  then ; 
but  now  in  sickness,  in  loneliness — ay,  in  delirium — how  often 
do  I  remember  thy  words,  and  thyself,  and  thy  countenance, 
and  thy  voice,  O  Master !  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  by 
different  ways  thou  and  I  have  reached  the  same  end  :  thou 
by  the  way  of  life — I  by  death.' 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  dwarf  burst  into 
the  room,  and  announced  with  agitation  : — 

1  Monna  Druda ! ' 

Leonardo  would  have  retired,  but  the  duke  detained  him, 
and  Gian  Galeazzo's  old  nurse  came  in  bearing  a  phial  of 
scorpion  ointment.  It  was  a  precious  balsam,  made  by 
catching  scorpions  in  the  height  of  summer,  when  the  sun  is 
in  Cancer,  keeping  them  for  fifty  days  exposed  to  the  sun, 
then  plunging  them  alive  into  hundred-year-old  olive  oil, 
mixed  with  groundsel,  mithridates,  and  snake-root.  Nightly 
the  patient  must  be  anointed  at  the  temples,  in  the  armpits, 
on  the  belly,  round  the  heart;  and  then  the  wise  woman 
swore  he  would  take  no  ill  from  spells,  from  witchcraft,  nor 
eke  from  poison. 

The  old  nurse,  seeing  Leonardo  seated  on  the  bed,  stopped, 
turned  ashy-white,  and  came  nigh  dropping  her  priceless 
balm. 

'  Santa  Vergine  benedetta  /  Defend  us  ! '  she  murmured. 
And  crossing  herself,  and  mumbling  exorcisms  and  prayers, 
she  r;in  as  fast  as  her  old  let;s  would  carry  her,  to  bring 
Madonna  Isabella  the  terrible  tidings. 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE--1494  117 

Monna  Druda  was  entirely  convinced  that  Ludovico  the 
assassin,  and  Leonardo  his  accomplice,  had  brought  Gian 
Galeazzo  to  his  death,  if  not  by  poison,  at  any  rate  by 
witchcraft  and  the  evil  eye.  The  duchess  Isabella,  kneeling 
in  her  private  chapel  before  the  most  sacred  image,  was 
praying  fervently,  when  Monna  Druda,  greatly  agitated, 
rushed  in  to  tell  her  Leonardo  was  with  the  duke.  The 
lady  leaped  to  her  feet,  and  cried,  her  face  scarlet  with 
indignation : — 

'  It  cannot  be  !     Who  has  allowed  him  to  pass  ? ' 

*Nay,  Most  Illustrious,  who  can  tell  how  this  accursed 
sorcerer  should  pass?     Have   I   not  been    saying   to   your 

Excellency '     She  was  interrupted  by  a  page,  who  knelt 

before  the  lady. 

*  Most  Excellent  Madonna,  will  your  ladyship  and  your 
ladyship's  most  illustrious  consort  deign  to  receive  His 
Majesty  the  Most  Christian  King  of  France?' 

VII 

Charles  vin.  was  lodged  in  the  lower  floor  of  the  Castle 
of  Pavia,  luxuriously  prepared  for  him  by  Ludovico  II  Moro. 
Reposing  after  his  dinner,  he  was  listening  to  the  reading  of 
a  book,  absurdly  translated  out  of  the  Latin  into  French,  and 
called  Mirabilia  urbis  Romce. 

Charles  had  been  a  solitary,  sickly  child,  frightened  to 
death  by  his  father.  During  many  weary  years,  in  the  Castle 
of  Amboise,  he  had  beguiled  his  melancholy  by  the  reading 
of  chivalric  romances,  till  his  brain,  never  of  the  strongest, 
was  completely  turned.  At  twenty  years  of  age  he  was  on 
the  throne;  and,  his  mind  full  of  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  the 
other  heroes  of  the  Round  Table,  believed  himself  destined 
to  rival  these  legendary  persons,  and  to  put  into  the  reality  of 
life  what  belonged  only  to  books  and  to  dream.  The  court 
poets  bathed  him  in  an  atmosphere  of  perpetual  adulation, 
calling  him  the  offspring  of  Mars,  the  heir  of  Julius  Caesar, 
when  at  the  head  of  a  great  host  he  had  crossed  the  Alps, 
and  made  his  descent  into  Lombardy,  lured  by  the  extravagant 
hope  of  conquering  Italy  and  the  East,  and  destroying  the 
heretical  Mahometan  religion. 

To-night,  listening  to  the  description  of  the  wonders  of 
Rome,  the  King  smiled,  thinking  of  the  glory  to  accrue  to 


*i8  THE  FORERUNNER 

him  from  the  Eternal  City.  His  thoughts  were,  however, 
somewhat  confused.  He  had  dined  heavily,  and  was  now 
troubled  by  stomach-ache  and  headache,  and  above  all  by 
the  recollection  of  a  certain  Madonna  Lucrezia  Crivelli, 
whose  beauty  had  haunted  him  for  a  day  and  a  night. 

Charles  vm.  was  low  in  stature  and  sufficiently  ugly.  His 
chest  was  narrow,  his  shoulders  crooked,  his  legs  thin  as  a 
pair  of  tongs.  His  nose  was  too  large,  his  mouth  hung  open, 
his  projecting  eyes  were  so  short-sighted  as  to  give  him  a 
perpetually  strained  expression  ;  his  light  hair  was  scanty,  and 
he  had  no  moustache ;  his  hands  and  face  twitched  convul- 
sively, his  speech  was  thick  and  abrupt,  it  was  said  he  had 
six  toes,  and  for  this  reason  had  set  the  court  fashion 
of  broad  soft  shoes  of  black  velvet,  rounded  at  the  top  to  the 
form  of  a  horse-shoe.  This  general  ungainliness,  together 
with  his  habitual  melancholy  and  distraction,  produced  an 
impression  not  too  ill  warranted  of  natural  imbecility. 

*  Thibaut !  Thibaut ! ■  he  cried  suddenly  to  his  valet, 
interrupting  the  reading  with  his  customary  abruptness,  and 
stammering  with  the  effort  to  find  his  words.      '  Thibaut ! 

I — somehow  think  I  am  thirsty.     Eh  ?     Perhaps  the  heat 

Bring  me  some  wine — Thibaut ' 

The  Cardinal  Brissonet,  entering,  announced  that  the  duke 
was  expecting  His  Most  Christian  Majesty. 

'Eh — eh?  What?  The  duke?  Good  ;  we  come  immedi- 
ately.    Let  me  first  drink ' 

And  he  stretched  his  hand  for  the  cup  brought  by  his 
servant.  Brissonet,  however,  stopped  him,  and  demanded  of 
Thibaut  :— 

'  Is  it  of  our  own?' 

*  No,  Monsignore ;  from  the  ducal  cellar.  Our  own  is 
consumed.' 

Brissonet  upset  the  cup. 

*  Your  Majesty  will  pardon  me,  but  the  wines  of  this  place 
may  be  unwholesome.  Thibaut,  send  a  messenger  at  once  to 
the  camp,  and  let  him  fetch  a  barrel  from  the  field  cellar.' 

'Why — eh?  What  is  this?'  asked  the  King  discon- 
certed. 

The  cardinal  whispered  that  he  feared  poison;  anything 
might  be  expected  from  men  who  had  done  to  death  their 
legitimate  sovereign;  true,  nothing  suspicious  had  yet  occurred, 
but  prudence  never  comes  amiss. 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494 


19 


4  Eh  ?  All  child's  folly  !  ■  grumbled  Charles,  twitching  one 
shoulder  :  however,  he  submitted. 

The  heralds  took  their  places  before  the  king ;  pages 
raised  over  his  head  the  splendid  baldachin  of  blue  silk, 
embroidered  with  the  silver  lilies  of  France;  the  seneschal 
threw  on  his  shoulders  a  scarlet  mantle,  ermine-bordered, 
and  embroidered  with  golden  bees,  and  the  motto,  '  Roi  des 
abeilks  rCa  pas  cFaiguillons*;  the  procession  traversed  gloomy 
and  deserted  halls,  and  took  its  way  to  the  apartments  of  the 
dying  man. 

Passing  the  chapel,  the  king  caught  sight  of  the  Duchess 
Isabella  at  her  faldstool.  He  gallantly  removed  his  cap, 
stopped,  and  calling  her  '  dear  sister,'  would  have  kissed  her 
on  the  lips,  according  to  the  French  ceremonial,  but  the 
duchess  hurried  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet. 

■  Have  compassion  on  us,  most  clement  lord/  she  began 
hurriedly,  in  set  words.  '  Defend  the  innocent,  O  magnani- 
mous knight-errant,  and  God  shall  give  thee  thy  reward  !  II 
Moro  has  robbed  us  of  everything  ;  he  has  usurped  our 
throne;  has  given  poison  to  Gian  Galeazzo,  my  husband, 
legitimate  inheritor  of  the  Lords  of  Milan  !  In  our  own 
house  he  has  surrounded  us  with  spies  and  assassins.     .  .' 

Charles  scarcely  understood  or  even  listened. 

1  Eh  ?  Eh  ?  What  ? '  he  asked,  stammering  and  twitching. 
*  No,  no,  sister.  No  occasion.  .  .  .  Rise,  rise,  I  beseech 
you.' 

But  the  unhappy  lady  knelt  on,  embracing  his  knees, 
weeping,  and  covering  his  hands  with  kisses. 

*  Ah,  Sire,  if  you  also  fail  me,  what  remains  to  me  but  to 
take  my  life?' 

This  completed  the  king's  embarrassment ;  puckering  his 
face  like  a  child  about  to  cry,  he  stuttered : — 

'There,  there!  Good  God!  'tis  impossible!  Brissonet! 
Brissonet ! — I  can't.     You  tell  her  that ' 

Before  this  lady,  who  in  her  humility  and  her  desperation 
appeared  to  him  sublime  as  some  heroine  of  antique  tragedy, 
he  felt  no  sentiment  of  compassion,  but  only  an  inane  desire 
to  make  his  escape. 

*  Most  noble  lady,  calm  yourself,'  said  the  cardinal,  coldly 
courteous.  *  His  Majesty  will  do  all  that  is  in  his  power 
for  you  and  for  your  consort,  Messer  Jean  Galeas.'  (So  he 
Gallicised  the  name.) 


iao  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  duchess  looked  at  the  cardinal;  then  looked  at  the 
king;  and  as  if  realising  for  the  first  time  the  sort  of  being 
to  whom  she  was  making  supplication,  became  silent. 

Deformed,  pitiful,  ridiculous,  he  stood  before  her,  his 
mouth  gaping,  a  foolish  smile  over  his  whole  countenance, 
his  light  eyes  opened  in  a  senseless  stare. 

1 1,  the  grand-daughter  of  Ferdinand  of  Aragon,  at  the  feet 
of  this  abortion ! — this  idiot ! ' 

She  rose,  and  a  flush  mounted  on  her  pale  cheek. 

The  king  felt  it  incumbent  on  him  to  say  something,  to 
end  somehow  this  embarrassing  silence.  He  made  a  great 
effort,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  blinked,  but  could  get  no 
further  than  his  usual — 

'  Eh  ?  eh?  What?*  Then  he  waved  his  hand  in  despair, 
and  relapsed  into  dumbness.  Isabella  measured  him  with  her 
eyes  in  undissembled  scorn,  and  Charles  was  abashed  and 
hung  his  head. 

'  Brissonet !  Brissonet !     Let  us  go  !     Eh  ?     What  ? ' 

The  pages  threw  open  the  doors,  and  his  progress  con- 
tinued till  he  had  reached  the  room  where  Gian  Galeazzo 
lay  dying.  Here  the  shutters  had  been  thrown  back,  and 
the  calm  light  of  the  autumn  evening  fell  across  the  gilded 
tree-tops  and  streamed  in  through  the  windows. 

The  king  approached  the  sufferer,  and  inquired  solicitously 
after  his  health,  calling  him  'cousin'  '  mon  cousin.7  Gian 
Galeazzo  answered  with  such  a  gentle  smile  that  the  poor 
king  was  relieved,  and  gradually  recovered  from  his 
confusion. 

*  May  the  Lord  send  victory  to  the  hosts  of  your  Highness, 
said  the  duke.  *  And  when  you  shall  be  at  Jerusalem,  at  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  of  Christ,  oh,  then,  pray  for  the  health  of  my 
poor  soul ;  for  by  that  time,  sire,  I ' 

{  Oh,  no  !  no,  brother !  Speak  not  thus,'  protested  Charles, 
'you  shall  recover.  We  must  march  together  against  these 
unclean  Turks.  Eh?  Believe  my  words.  I  give  you  my 
word— Eh?  what?' 

Gian  Galeazzo  shook  his  head. 

'Impossible/  he  murmured,  looking  into  the  king's  eyes 
with  his  penetrating  glance.  'And,  sire,  when  I  shall  be 
dead,  I  pray  you,  abandon  not  my  little  Francesco  and  my 
unhappy  Isabella.     They  will  have  none  other  to  look  to.7 

'  Good  God  !     Good  God  ! '  murmured  Charles,  overcome 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  121 

by  unlooked-for  emotion.  His  lips  quivered,  their  corners 
drooped,  and,  as  by  a  sudden  light  from  within,  his  face 
shone  with  an  immense  kindliness.  He  bent  over  the  sick 
man  and  folded  him  in  his  arms. 

*  Brother!  my  poor  dear  brother!'  They  smiled  sadly, 
like  a  pair  of  poor  sick  children ;  and  kissed  each  other. 

When  he  had  left  the  room,  the  king  turned  to  the 
cardinal. 

'  Brissonet — Brissonet !  We  must  do  something — eh  ? 
Defend — protect This  will  not  do  !  It  cannot  be  per- 
mitted. I  am  a  knight;  I  must  succour  the  unfortunate. 
Do  you  understand  ? ' 

'  Sire,'  replied  the  cardinal,  ■  what  is  the  use  ?  His  destiny 
is  to  die.  We  cannot  profit  him,  but  we  can  damn  ourselves. 
Moreover,  'tis  II  Moro  who  is  your  ally.' 

'II  Moro  is  a  murderer!  that  is  it ;  a  proper  murderer,' 
exclaimed  Charles,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  indignation. 

'Is  it  our  business?'  asked  Brissonet,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  with  a  smile.  '  II  Moro  is  neither  better  nor  worse 
than  others.  'Tis  political  necessity.  We  are  but  men, 
sire.' 

The  cup-bearer  now  came  with  a  goblet  of  French  wine, 
which  Charles  drank  thirstily.  It  refreshed  him,  and  scattered 
his  sad  thoughts.  With  the  cup-bearer  had  entered  a  mes- 
senger from  Ludovico,  bearing  an  invitation  to  supper  for 
the  king.  Charles  declined  it :  the  envoy  pressed  his  suit, 
bat  unavailingly.  Then  the  messenger  whispered  to  Thibaut, 
who  in  turn  whispered  to  the  king. 

■  Your  Highness — Madonna  Lucrezia ' 

'  Eli  ?  what  ?     What  Lucrezia  ? ' 

'  The  lady  with  whom  your  Majesty  danced  last  night.' 

'Ah,  yes  ;  to  be  sure.  I  recall  her.  Madonna  Lucrezia; 
a  pretty  little  mouthful !   Do  you  hint  she  would  be  at  supper  ?' 

•Certes,  she  will  be  there.  And  she  supplicates  your 
Highness ' 

'She  supplicates?     Eh?      What  say   you,  Thibaut?      I, 

forsooth Well,  well,  to-morrow  we  take  the  field — 'tis 

the  last  time.  Messere,  give  your  master  my  thanks,  and 
tell  him  that  I — forsooth ' 

The  King  took  Thibaut  aside. 

'Hark  you — this  Madonna  Lucrezia — who  is  she?" 

'  Sire,  the  leman  of  II  Moro/ 


i22  THE  FORERUNNER 

'Alas!' 

*  A  single  word  from  your  Majesty  and  all  can  be  acconv 
polished  this  evening  itself,  if  you  will,  sire.' 

'No!  no!     How?     I — his  guest?' 

'  II  Moro  will  find  his  pleasure  in  it.  Sire,  you  understand 
not  this  people  here ! ' 

1  Well  then,  well !     As  you  will.     It  is  your  affair.' 

'Your  Majesty  may  be  at  ease.     A  single  word ' 

'  Speak  no  more,  Thibaut.  It  mislikes  me.  Have  I  not 
said  'tis  your  work.  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  it.  Do  what 
you  choose!' 

Thibaut  bowed  and  withdrew. 

Upon  reaching  the  foot  of  the  stair  the  king  frowned  and 
scratched  his  head,  trying  to  recall  his  thoughts. 

'Brissonet!  Brissonet !  What  was  I  saying?  Ah  yes — 
to  defend — offended  innocence.     I  am  sworn  knight ' 

'Your  Majesty  must  quit  these  thoughts.  They  fit  not 
with  the  present  moment.  Later,  when  we  shall  have 
returned  victorious  from  Jerusalem ' 

'Jerusalem!'  echoed  the  king,  and  his  eyes  dilated,  and 
on  his  lips  came  a  pale,  faint,  dreamy  smile. 

'The  hand  of  the  Lord  leads  your  Majesty  to  victory,'  con- 
tinued Brissonet;  'the  finger  of  God  points  the  way  to  the 
army  of  the  cross.' 

Charles  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  as  if  inspired,  and 
repeated,  '  Finger  of  God  !     Finger  of  God  ! ' 

VIII 

The  young  duke  died  eight  days  later.  Before  his  death 
he  prayed  for  an  interview  with  Leonardo,  but  Isabella  refused 
to  permit  it,  Monna  Druda  having  told  her  that  the  bewitched 
have  always  an  insuperable  and  fatal  wish  to  see  those  who 
have  enchanted  them.  The  old  woman  indefatigably  anointed 
the  patient  with  scorpion  ointment,  the  doctor  ordered  blood- 
letting, the  barber  opened  veins.  Nevertheless  he  quietly 
died. 

'Thy  will  be  done,'  were  his  last  words. 

Ludovico  had  his  body  taken  from  Pavia  to  Milan,  and 
buried  him  under  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral. 

Nobles  and  elders  of  the  city  assembled  at  the  castle,  and 
Ludovico,   after  assuring   them   of    the   profound   grief  he 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  123 

suffered  at  the  untimely  death  of  his  nephew,  made  proposal 
that  the  child  Francesco,  Gian  Galeazzo's  son,  should  be 
declared  duke.  The  assembly  maintained  it  were  madness 
to  invest  an  infant  with  such  power.  II  Moro  himself  was 
implored,  in  the  name  of  the  people,  to  assume  the  sceptre. 
He  feigned  refusal,  but  reluctantly  yielded  to  their  prayers. 

Gold  brocade  was  brought,  and  the  duke  put  it  on;  he 
then  rode  to  the  basilica  of  Sant'  Ambrogio  surrounded  by 
a  crowd  of  courtiers —  Viva  il  Moro  /  Viva  il  duca  ! — amid 
the  sounding  of  trumpets,  the  firing  of  cannon,  the  clashing 
of  bells,  and— the  silence  of  the  people. 

A  few  days  later  the  most  sacred  relic  in  Milan,  one  of  the 
nails  of  the  True  Cross,  was  solemnly  transported  to  the 
cathedral.  By  this  function  II  Moro  hoped  to  please  the 
populace  and  to  consolidate  his  power. 

IX 

That  night  a  crowd  assembled  before  Tibaldo's  wine-cellar 
in  the  Piazza  dell'  Arrengo.  There  were  present  the  tinman 
Scarabullo,  Mascarello  the  goldsmith,  Maso  the  furrier,  Cor- 
bolo  the  shoemaker,  and  Gorgoglio  the  glass-blower.  Stand- 
ing on  a  cask  in  the  middle  of  the  crowd  was  Fra  Timoteo, 
the  Domenican,  delivering  a  sermon. 

*  Brothers !  when  Santa  Elena  had  found  the  life-giving  Tree 
of  the  Cross  and  the  other  instruments  of  the  Lord's  Passion, 
which  had  been  buried  by  the  heathen  in  the  earth  under  the 
shrine  of  Venus,  then  the  Emperor  Constantine,  taking  one 
of  these  most  holy  and  awful  nails,  bade  the  smiths  work  it 
into  the  bit  of  his  war-horse,  that  thus  the  word  of  the  prophet 
Zechariah  might  be  fulfilled  :  "  In  that  day  shall  there  be 
upon  the  bells  of  the  horses  Holiness  unto  the  Lord."  And 
this  ineffable  relic  gave  him  the  victory  over  his  enemies  and 
over  the  adversaries  of  the  Roman  Empire.'  .  .  .  Here 
Fra  Timoteo  made  a  pause,  then  raising  his  hands  to  heaven 
he  cried  in  a  lamentable  voice : — '  And  now,  brethren  beloved, 
a  great  abomination  is  being  committed.  II  Moro,  the  evil- 
doer, the  homicide,  the  usurper,  seduceth  the  people  with 
impious  festivals,  and  would  use  the  most  Holy  Nail  for  the 
support  of  his  trembling  throne.' 

The  crowd  showed  agitation,  and  low  cries  were  heard. 

'And  knowjre,  my  brethren,  upon  whom  he  hath  devolved 


124  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  construction  of  the  machine  for  raising  the  Nail  to  its  place 
in  the  cupola  above  the  high  altar?' 

•To  whom ?' 

•To  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  the  Florentine.' 

•Who  is  this  Leonardo ?'  asked  several  persons. 

'Nay,'  returned  others,  'we  know  him;  the  poisoner  of  the 
young  duke ! ' 

'Leonardo  the  sorcerer!  Leonardo  the  heretic!  the 
infidel !  ' 

Corbolo  timidly  undertook  the  defence. 

•  Friends,  I  have  heard  say  that  Leonardo  is  a  good  man, 
who  does  ill  to  none,  and  is  compassionate  not  only  of  men 
but  of  the  meanest  animals.' 

•  Speak  not  foolishly,  Corbolo ! ' 

•  Hold  your  tongue.     How  can  a  sorcerer  be  good  ?' 

'  My  sons !  my  sons  ! '  declaimed  Fra  Timoteo,  '  there  shall 
be  a  day  when  men  shall  praise  the  great  deceiver,  him  who 
walketh  in  darkness,  saying  of  him,  "He  is  kind,  he  is  just, 
he  is  good";  for  his  fare  shall  be  like  unto  the  face  of  the 
Christ,  and  he  shall  have  a  voice  comforting  and  pleasant 
like  the  voice  of  a  singing  woman.  And  many  shall  be  led 
astray  by  his  wily  kindness.  And  by  the  four  winds  of  heaven 
he  shall  call  together  tribes  and  nations,  as  a  partridge  with 
a  deceiving  cry  calls  into  her  nest  the  brood  of  another.  Be 
watchful,  O  brethren!  Behold  the  angel  of  darkness,  the 
prince  of  this  world,  who  is  called  Antichrist,  cometh  in 
human  shape.  Be  watchful,  I  say,  because  this  Florentine, 
this  Leonardo,  is  the  precursor  and  the  servant  of  Antichrist.' 

"Tis  true!'  cried  Gorgoglio  (who,  however,  had  never 
before  even  heard  of  Leonardo);  'they  say  he  has  sold  his 
soul  to  the  devil,  and  has  signed  the  covenant  with  his 
blood.' 

'  Holy  Mother  of  God,  have  mercy  upon  us  ! '  babbled 
Barbaccia  the  fruit-woman.  'Stamma,  the  wench  at  the 
hangman's  who  does  charing  at  the  prison,  told  me  that  this 
Leonardo  (Heaven  defend  me  from  speaking  his  name  after 
dusk)  wrests  the  bodies  from  the  gallows — cuts  them  up — 
takes  out  their  bowels ' 

'You  know  not  what  you  speak,'  said  Corbolo;  "tis  a 
matter  of  science,  and  called  Anatomy.' 

'They  say  he  has  made  a  contrivance  to  fly  in  the  air  on 
bird's  wings,'  observed  Mascarello  the  goldsmith. 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  125 

'Veglias  also,  that  old  winged  serpent,  rebelled  against 
God/  commented  Fra  Timoteo ;  '  Simon  Magus  also  raised 
himself  into  the  air  for  flight,  but  the  holy  Apostle  Saint  Paul 
threw  him  down.' 

*  He  walketh  on  the  water/  cried  Scarabullo.  { He  says, 
"God  walked  on  the  sea  and  so  will  I."  Heard  you  ever  so 
great  blasphemy?' 

*  He  goes  into  a  bell,  and  descends  to  the  bottom  of  the 
deep/  added  Maso. 

*  Nay,  brothers,  credit  not  that ! '  cried  Gorgoglio.  '  What 
need  hath  he  of  a  bell?  He  transforms  himself  into  a 
fish  and  swims ;  he  transforms  himself  into  a  bird  and  doth 

fiy-' 

1  Ahi  /  beloved  brothers  ! '  cried  Timoteo  ;  '  and  the  nail, 
the  Holy  Nail  is  in  the  hands  of  this  Leonardo  !' 

'It  shall  not  be!'  shouted  Scarabullo,  clenching  his  fists; 
death  to  us  sooner  than  profanation  of  our  holy  things  !  We 
will  tear  the  Nail  from  the  hands  of  the  infidel.' 

*  Vengeance  for  the  Holy  Nail !  Vengeance  for  our 
poisoned  lord  !     Burn  him  !     Hang  him  ! ' 

'Brothers,  what  do  ye?'  cried  the  shoemaker  with  implor- 
ing hands;  'the  night  patrol  will  pass  in  a  moment,  and  the 
captain  of  justice- ' 

' To  the  devil  with  the  captain  of  justice !  Run  if  you're 
frightened,  Corbolo  ;  run  under  your  wife's  petticoat.' 

And  armed  with  cudgels,  staves,  poles,  and  stones,  the 
crowd  surged  through  the  streets,  snouting  and  cursing.  In 
front  went  the  monk,  bearing  the  crucifix  and  chanting  the 
psalm,  '  Let  God  arise,  let  his  enemies  be  scattered  !  As  wax 
melteth  before  the  fire,  so  let  the  wicked  perish  at  the  pre- 
sence of  God !  ■ 

The  torches  smoked  and  flared.  In  their  scarlet  light  the 
lonely  moon  grew  pale,  and  the  quiet  stars  trembled  in  the 
heavens. 


Leonardo  in  his  quiet  workshop  was  occupied  with  the 
machine  for  the  elevation  of  the  Holy  Nail.  Zoroastro  was 
making  a  casket,  all  glass  and  gold,  in  which  the  relic  was  to 
be  displayed.  Giovanni  Boltraffio  was  sitting  in  a  dark 
corner  watching  the  Master. 


i26  THE  FORERUNNER 

Gradually,  however,  Leonardo  had  forgotten  his  machine, 
his  thoughts  having  wandered  to  theories  as  to  the  transmis- 
sion of  force  by  means  of  blocks  and  levers.  He  had  made 
a  complicated  calculation  in  which  the  mathematical  law  (the 
inner  principle  of  reason)  had  explained  to  him  the 
mechanical  law  (the  outer  principle  of  nature) ;  two  great 
secrets  were  thus  fused  into  one  still  greater  secret. 

'  Man/  thought  he,  *  will  never  invent  anything  so  perfect, 
as  doth  Nature,  which  of  necessity  so  disposeth  her  laws  that 
every  effect  is  straitly  bound  up  with  its  cause.' 

In  face  of  the  infinite  abyss  into  which  he  was  directing  his 
penetrating  gaze,  his  soul  was  filled  with  that  sense  of  over- 
whelming wonder  which  has  no  likeness  to  the  other  senti- 
ments of  men.  On  the  margin  of  the  paper,  covered  with  the 
calculations  for  the  simple  machinery  required  for  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  Holy  Nail,  he  wrote  these  words  which  echoed  in 
his  heart  like  a  prayer : — 

1  O  mirabiU  giustizia  di  te>  Primo  Motore  !  iu  non  hat  voluto 
mancare  a  nessuna  potenza  Vordine  e  qualita  de  suoi  necessari 
effetti  V  (  O  admirable  justice  of  Thee,  Prime  Mover ! 
To  no  force  hast  Thou  permitted  lack  of  the  order  and 
quality  of  its  necessary  effects !) 

But  the  artist's  meditations  were  interrupted  by  a  furious 
knocking  at  the  outer  door,  together  with  chanting  of  psalms, 
and  the  objurgations  and  yells  of  an  inflamed  rabble. 
Giovanni  and  Zoroastro  were  rushing  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened, when  Maturina  the  cook,  with  dishevelled  hair,  burst 
half  dressed  into  the  room,  crying: — 

1  Thieves !  Robbers  !  Murderers !  Holy  Mother  of  God 
have  mercy  on  us  !  * 

*  What  is  it  ? '  asked  Leonardo  of  Marco  d'Oggionno,  who 
had  also  entered,  arquebus  in  hand,  and  was  beginning  to 
shut  the  shutters. 

c  I  know  not  exactly.  It  would  seem  a  crowd  of  house- 
breakers, egged  on  by  monks.' 

'What  is  their  demand?' 

'Only  their  father  can  understand  these  sons  of  the  devil  1 
They  demand  the  Holy  Nail.' 

'I  have  it  not.  Tis  in  the  sacristy  in  the  care  of  Mon- 
signor  Arcimboldi.' 

"Tis  what  I  told  them.  But  being  mad  as  dogs  in  the  time 
of  the  summer  solstice,  they  hearkened  not,  but  continued 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE— 1494  127 

to  vilify  Your  Worship  as  an  infidel  and  a  sorcerer,  and  the 
poisoner  of  Gian  Galeazzo.' 

During  this  colloquy  the  noise  in  the  street  grew  apace. 

'Open,  or  we  will  fire  this  accursed  nest.  In  one  moment, 
Leonardo,  you  shall  be  flayed  !  Demon!  Antichrist!' 

'Let  God  arise,  let  His  enemies  be  scattered!'  chanted  Fra 
Timoteo  to  the  accompaniment  of  Farfanicchio's  stridulous 
whistle. 

Suddenly  Jacopo,  the  wicked  little  servant,  ran  in,  sprang 
on  the  window  ledge,  opened  the  shutter,  and  was  going  to 
jump  into  the  courtyard,  but  Leonardo  held  him  back. 

'Whither  art  going,  child?' 

f  To  call  the  guard.  The  captain  of  justice  passes  at  this 
hour.' 

'  No,  no.  If  they  catch  you  they  will  kill  you  without  a 
word  spoken.' 

'  They  shall  not  see  me.  I  will  get  over  the  wall,  through 
Aunt  Trulla's  garden,  over  the  green  ditch  into  the  backyard. 
'Tis  as  good  as  done  !  Likewise  it  were  better  they  killed  me 
than  you,  Master.' 

And  glancing  back  with  eyes  full  of  love  and  daring,  the 
lad  leaped  from  the  window,  and  was  off  like  a  flash. 

'  For  once  the  little  devil  is  some  use,'  said  Maturina  shak- 
ing her  head. 

A  stone  came  crashing  through  the  window,  and  shrieking 
and  wringing  her  hands,  the  fat  woman  fled,  felt  her  way 
down  the  dark  stairs  to  the  cellar,  and  hid  in  a  wine-cask. 
Marco  hurried  upstairs  to  bar  the  windows ;  Giovanni,  pale, 
distressed,  but  indifferent  to  the  peril,  turned  a  woeful 
countenance  to  Leonardo,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

'  O  Master,  they  say I  swear  it  is  not  true — nay,  I 

believe  it  not — but  for  God's  sake  tell  me  yourself ! '  and 

he  stopped  short,  panting  with  agitation.  Leonardo  smiled 
sadly. 

'  You  fear  they  speak  truth  that  I  am  a  murderer  ? ' 

'  A  word,  master  !  a  single  word  from  your  own  lips  ! ' 

'  But  why,  friend  ?  If  you  can  harbour  a  doubt,  you  would 
not  believe  me.' 

'  Oh,  Messer  Leonardo,  I  am  in  torture  ...  A  word,  a 
single  word ! ' 

Leonardo  did  not  answer  immediately ;  then  he  said  in  a 
shaking  voice : — 


128  THE  FORERUNNER 

'You  also,  Giovanni,  with  them  !     You,  also,  against  me!' 

Outside  the  blows  were  such  that  the  whole  house  shook. 
Scarabullo  was  forcing  the  door  with  an  axe.  Leonardo, 
hearing  the  imprecations  and  the  insults  of  the  infuriated 
crowd,  felt  his  heart  contracted  with  anguish  and  great  soli- 
tude. His  chin  drooped,  and  his  glance  fell  on  the  lines 
just  written  :  '  O  mirabiU giustizia  di  te,  Primo  Motoref1 

He  smiled,  and  with  great  humility  repeated  the  words  of 
the  dying  Gian  Galeazzo: — 

•  All  is  well.    Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven.* 


BOOK    VI 

THE    DIARY   OF   GIOVANNI    BOLTRAFFIO I494-I495 

V amove  di  qualunque  cosa  £  Jlgliuolo  (Tessa  cogniiione.  Vamore  & 
tanto  piu  fervente,  quanto  la  cognitione  t  piu  cert  a. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(Knowledge  of  a  thing  engenders  love  of  it ;  the  more  exact  the  know- 
ledge, the  more  fervent  the  love. ) 

*  Be  ye  wise  as  serpents  and  harmless  as  doves.' — St.  Matt.  x.  16. 

Giovanni's  Diary 

On  the  25th  of  March  1494  I  entered  myself  as  a  disciple 
in  the  studio  of  Messer  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  the  Florentine 
master. 

* 

This  is  the  order  of  his  teaching: — perspective;  the 
dimensions  and  proportions  of  the  human  body;  drawings 
from  examples  by  the  best  masters  ;  drawings  from  nature. 

# 

To-day  Marco  d'Oggionno,  my  fellow-disciple,  has  given 
me  a  book,  taken  down  entirely  from  the  words  of  our  Master. 
The  book  begins  thus : — 

'The  purest  joy  is  given  to  the  body  by  the  light  of  the 
sun;  to  the  spirit,  by  the  clear  shining  of  mathematics. 
That  is  why  the  science  of  Perspective  (in  which  the  contem- 
plation of  the  bright  line — la  linia  radiosa — true  solace  of  the 
eye,  goes  hand  in  hand  with  the  clearness  of  mathematics — 
true  solace  of  the  mind)  must  be  exalted  above  all  other 
human  research  and  science.  May  He  who  said,  "  I  am 
the  true  Light,"  lend  me  His  aid  that  I  may  know  the  science 
of  Perspective — the  science  of  His  light.  I  divide  this  book 
into  three  parts :  the  first,  the  diminishing,  by  distance,  of  the 
I 


130  THE  FORERUNNER 

size  of  objects;  the  second,  the  diminishing  of  the  distinctness 
of  the  colour;  the  third,  the  diminishing  of  the  clearness  of  the 
outline* 

# 

The  Master  cares  for  me  like  a  father.  When  he  learned 
of  my  poverty,  he  refused  to  take  the  monthly  payment 
agreed  on. 

# 

The  Master  says  : — 

*  When  you  shall  have  grasped  well  your  Perspective,  and 
hold  in  your  mind  the  proportions  of  the  human  body,  then 
in  your  walks  abroad  notice  assiduously  the  postures  and 
movements  of  men,  how  they  stand,  walk,  talk,  and  quarrel ; 
how  they  laugh  and  fight ;  the  manner  of  their  faces  when 
they  are  doing  these  things,  and  the  manner  of  the  faces  of 
the  bystanders  who  want  to  separate  the  fighters;  and  the 
faces  of  those  who  look  on  with  apathy.  Set  all  in  pencil 
in  a  notebook  of  coloured  paper,  which  you  should  always  have 
about  you.  When  the  booklet  is  filled,  take  another;  put  the 
first  one  away  and  keep  it.  In  no  wise  destroy  nor  rub  out 
these  sketches ;  for  the  movements  of  the  body  are  so  endless 
that  no  memory  could  hold  them  all.  That  is  why  you  must 
look  on  these  rough  sketches  as  your  best  teachers.' 

I  have  made  myself  such  a  sketchbook. 

# 

To-day  in  the  Vicolo  dei  Pattari,  not  far  from  the  cathedral, 
I  encountered  my  uncle,  Oswald  Ingrim.  He  told  me  he 
renounced  me ;  and  accused  me  of  ruining  my  soul  in  the 
house  of  the  heretic  and  the  infidel. 

t 

Whenever  I  am  heavy  of  heart,  I  have  but  to  look  on  his 
face  to  grow  light  and  gay.  How  wondrous  are  his  eyes ; 
clear,  blue,  pale,  and  cold — cold  as  ice.  The  voice,  most 
pleasant  and  soft.  The  most  cruel,  the  most  obdurate,  can 
by  no  means  resist  his  persuasiveness.  He  sits  at  his  work- 
table,  immersed  in  thoughts,  parting  and  smoothing  his 
golden  beard,  long  and  soft  as  the  silk  of  a  maiden.  When 
he  talks  with  any  one,  then  he  partly  closes  one  eye  with 
a  merry  and  kind  expression ;  his  glance  from  under  the  thick 
and  overhanging  eyebrows  penetrates  the  very  soul. 

He  dislikes  lively  colours,  and  new  and  discommoding 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO      131 

fashions ;  nor  does  he  affect  perfumes.  His  linen  is  of 
Rhenish  stuff,  marvellous  clean  and  fine.  His  black  velvet 
berreito  carries  no  plumes  nor  ornaments.  His  suiting  is 
of  black ;  but  he  wears  a  mantle  of  dark  red  which  reaches 
to  the  knee,  and  hangs  in  straight  folds,  as  was  the  old 
mode  in  Florence.  His  movements  are  easy  and  quiet, 
but  notable.     He  is  like  no  one  else. 

Shoots  excellently  with  the  bow  or  arbalist,  rides,  swims, 
is  a  master  of  fence  with  the  small  sword.  To-day  I  saw 
him  hit  the  highest  point  of  the  cupola  of  a  church  with 
a  small  thrown  coin.  Messer  Leonardo,  by  the  skill  and  the 
strength  of  his  hand,  surpassed  every  competitor. 

He  is  left-handed  ;  but  with  that  same  left  hand,  for  all  it 
looks  delicate  and  soft  as  a  woman's,  he  bends  iron  fetters 
and  twists  the  tongue  of  a  brazen  bell. 

While  I  was  watching  him,  the  child  Jacopo  ran  in  laughing 
and  clapping  his  hands. 

'  Cripples,  Messer  Leonardo,  monsters  !  Come  your  ways 
into  the  kitchen,  I  have  brought  you  such  beauties  that  you 
shall  lick  your  fingers  for  joy  ! 

•  Whence  came  they  ? ' 

'From  the  porch  of  Sant'  Ambrogio.  Beggars  from 
Bergamo !  I  promised  you  'd  give  them  supper  if  they  'd 
let  themselves  be  painted.' 

Leaving  the  picture  of  the  Virgin  unfinished,  Leonardo 
betook  him  to  the  kitchen,  I  following.  We  found  two 
brothers,  very  old  and  swollen  with  dropsy-  great  hanging 
goitres  on  their  throats.  With  them  was  the  wife  of  one  of 
them,  a  withered  little  old  body,  whose  name  Ragnina  (little 
spider)  seemed  very  suitable. 

'You  see,'  cried  Jacopo  triumphantly,  '  I  said  you  would  be 
pleased  !     Don't  I  know  exactly  what  you  like  ? ' 

Leonardo  sat  down  by  the  hobgoblin  cripples,  ordered  wine 
to  be  brought,  served  it  to  them  himself,  questioned  them 
kindly,  told  them  absurd  stories  to  make  them  laugh.  At  first 
they  were  restive  and  suspicious,  not  understanding  why  they 
had  been  brought  in.  But  when  he  related  an  anecdote  about 
a  dead  Jew,  whom  his  compatriots,  to  evade  the  law  forbidding 
the  burial  of  Hebrews  within  the  confines  of  Bologna,  had 
cut  in  pieces,  pickled,  spiced,  and  sent  to  Venice  where 


i32  THE  FORERUNNER 

he  was  eaten  by  a  Florentine  Christian,  the  Little  Spider 
was  like  to  burst  with  laughter.  Soon  all  three  were  tipsy, 
and  laughing  and  talking  and  making  the  most  horrible  faces. 
I  was  disgusted  and  looked  away ;  but  Leonardo  watched 
them  with  deep  and  eager  curiosity  ;  and  when  their  hideous- 
ness  had  reached  its  height,  took  out  his  sketch-book  and 
drew  with  the  same  delighted  attention  that  he  had  lavished 
on  the  smile  of  the  Virgin. 

In  the  evening  he  showed  me  a  whole  collection  of  carica- 
tures ;  grotesques  not  only  of  men  but  also  of  beasts — terrible 
shapes,  like  those  which  haunt  sick  men  in  their  delirium, 
the  human  and  the  bestial  compounded  to  make  one 
shudder.  The  muzzle  of  a  porcupine,  its  quills  bristling, 
its  under  lip  pendent,  loose,  and  thin  as  a  rag,  displaying 
in  a  human  grin  two  long  white  teeth  like  almonds ;  an  old 
woman,  her  nose  spread  and  hairy,  and  scarce  bigger  than 
a  mole,  her  lips  monstrously  thick,  like  those  squat  and  viscid 
fungi  which  grow  out  of  withered  trunks. 

Cesare  da  Sesto  tells  me  that  sometimes  the  Master,  hav- 
ing met  some  monstrosity  in  the  street,  will  follow  it  for  a 
whole  day.  Great  deformity,  he  says,  is  as  rare  as  great 
beauty ;  only  mediocrity  is  negligible. 

# 

Marco  d'Oggionno  works  like  an  ox,  and  carries  out  all  the 
teacher's  rules ;  the  more  he  tries  the  less  is  his  success. 
He  is  endowed  with  an  invincible  constancy.  He  thinks 
patience  and  labour  shall  possess  all  things ;  nor  doth  he 
despair  of  some  day  becoming  a  great  painter. 

He  takes  also,  more  than  any  of  us,  rare  delight  in  the 
master's  inventions.  One  of  these  days  he  carried  his  note- 
book to  the  Piazza  del  Broletto,  and  according  to  the  Master's 
system  he  made  the  required  indexed  notes  of  those  faces 
which  struck  him  chiefly  in  the  crowd.  But  on  reaching 
home  he  could  in  no  wise  translate  his  notes  into  a  living 
face.  Likewise  did  he  fail  in  the  use  of  Leonardo's  spoon 
for  measuring  out  colour.  His  shadows  remain  thick  and 
unnatural,  just  as  his  faces  are  wooden  and  devoid  of  all 
charm.  Marco  accounts  for  this"  by  some  small  failure  in  his 
obedience  to  the  rules.     Cesare  da  Sesto  ridicules  him. 

'This  most  excellent  Marco,'  he  says,  'is  a  martyr  in 
the  cause  of  science.      His  example  shows  that  all  these 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO      133 

measures  and  rules  be  worth  nothing.  To  know  how  infants 
are  born  does  not  suffice  to  beget  one.  Leonardo  deceiveth 
himself  and  others;  he  teaches  one  thing  and  performs 
another.  When  he  paints  he  follows  no  rule  save  that  of 
inspiration ;  yet  he  is  not  content  to  be  a  great  artist,  but 
would  be  a  man  of  science  also.  I  fear  lest,  coursing  two 
hares,  he  run  down  neither.' 

It  may  be  that  in  this  mockery  of  Cesare's  there  is  a 
modicum  of  truth ;  but  no  love  for  the  Master.  Leonardo 
hearkens  to  him,  praises  his  intelligence,  and  never  is  wroth 
with  him. 

# 

I  am  watching  how  he  works  at  his  Cenacolo.  TBetimes, 
before  sunrise,  he  goes  to  the  convent  refectory,  and  paints 
till  the  shadows  close  in  on  him,  nor  does  the  brush  fall 
from  his  hands,  nor  does  he  remember  food  and  drink. 
Sometimes  he  lets  whole  weeks  go  by  in  which  he  touches 
not  his  paints.  Sometimes  he  will  stand  for  two  hours  on  the 
scaffold  before  the  picture  examining  it  and  criticising  what 
he  has  done.  At  other  times  I  have  known  him  rush  forth 
in  the  mid-day  heat  through  the  blazing  streets,  being  drawn 
by  some  viewless  power  to  the  monastery  ;  he  will  mount  his 
scaffold,  do  two  touches  or  mayhap  three,  and  rush  away  at 
once. 

# 

He  is  working  at  the  countenance  of  the  Apostle  John. 
To-day  he  should  have  completed  it.  Instead  he  remained 
at  home  with  the  child  Jacopo,  watching  the  flight  of  hornets, 
wasps,  and  flies.  So  absorbed  is  he  in  studying  the  con- 
struction of  their  bodies  that  'twould  seem  on  it  depended 
the  destiny  of  the  human  race.  Having  perceived  that  the 
hind  legs  of  flies  serve  them  as  a  rudder,  he  experienced 
greater  pleasure  than  if  he  had  found  the  secret  of  perpetual 
felicity.  He  thinks  the  discovery  useful,  and  like  to  serve 
his  apparatus  for  flight.     Poor  Apostle  John  ! 

To-day  there  is  a  new  distraction,  and  the  flies  are 
abandoned.  The  Master  is  working  on  a  design,  beautiful 
and  wondrous  delicate,  which  is  to  form  the  coat-of-arms  of 
an  academy  not  yet  existing  outside  the  brain  of  the  duke. 
The  device  is  a  square  containing  a  crown  of  cords,  geometri- 
cally intertwined,  in  knots  without  beginning  or  end.    I  could 


134  THE  FORERUNNER 

not  restrain  myself,  but  reminded  him  of  the  unfinished 
apostle.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  without  raising  his 
eyes  from  the  crown  of  cords,  he  said  through  his  closed 
teeth  :— 

'Patience!  time  enough!  The  head  of  John  will  not  run 
away ! ' 

I  begin  to  comprehend  Cesare's  malice ! 


The  duke  has  entrusted  to  him  the  construction  within  the 
palace  of  hearing-tubes  concealed  in  the  thickness  of  the 
walls,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Ear  of  Dionysius.  Leonardo 
began  with  ardour,  but  now  has  cooled  and  catches  at  every 
pretext  for  laying  the  work  aside.  The  duke  hurries  him  and 
is  wroth;  this  morning  he  summoned  him  several  times  to 
the  palace,  but  the  Master  is  occupied  with  experiments  on 
vegetables.  He  has  cut  away  the  roots  from  a  pumpkin, 
leaving  but  one  small  shoot,  which  he  assiduously  drenches 
with  water.  To  his  great  joy  the  plant  has  not  withered. 
'The  mother,' says  he,  'nourishes  well  her  children.'  Sixty 
little  oblong  pumpkins  have  formed. 

# 
Cesare  says  Leonardo  is  the  greatest  of  the  libertines. 
He  has  written  a  hundred  and  twenty  volumes  on  matters 
of  natural  science,  but  all  in  fragments,  in  dispersed  notes  on 
flying  leaves ;  and  he  keeps  a  ms.  of  over  five  thousand  pages 
in  such  disorder  that  he  himself  cannot  find  anything  in  it. 

# 

Coming  into  my  little  room,  he  said :  '  Giovanni,  have  you 
noticed  that  small  rooms  dispose  the  mind  to  profundity, 
large  ones  to  breadth?  And  have  you  observed  how  the 
images  of  things,  seen  through  the  shadow  of  rain,  are  clearer 
than  in  the  sunlight?' 

# 

Two  days  of  work  on  the  head  of  John  the  Apostle.  But, 
alas !  something  has  been  lost  through  flies,  pumpkins,  cats, 
and  the  ear  of  Dionysius.  He  has  again  failed  to  complete 
the  head,  and  now,  disgusted  with  his  paint-box,  retired  into 
geometry.  He  says  that  the  odour  of  the  paint  nauseates 
him,  and  the  sight  of  the  brushes.  Thus  the  days  pass ;  at 
the  caprice  of  chance,  and  submitting  to  the  will  of  God,  we, 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO      135 

as  it  were,  lie  in  port  waiting  for  a  wind.     Fortunately  he 
has  forgotten  the  flying-machine  or  we  should  starve. 

What  to  others  appears  perfection  is  to  him  teeming  with 
error.  He  aims  at  the  highest,  at  the  unattainable,  at  what 
is  for  ever  beyond  the  reach  of  the  hand  of  man.  There- 
fore his  productions  rest  incomplete. 

Andrea  Salaino  has  fallen  sick.  The  Master  nurses  him, 
sits  up  at  night,  watches  by  his  pillow ;  but  no  one  dare  speak 
to  him  of  medicine.  Marco  d'  Oggionno  surreptitiously  intro- 
duced a  pill-box,  but  Leonardo  found  it,  and  cast  it  from 
the  window.  Andrea  himself  desired  to  be  bled,  and  spoke 
of  a  most  skilled  phlebotomist  of  his  acquaintance ;  but  the 
Master  grew  properly  indignant,  speaking  of  all  doctors  with 
epithets  most  injurious. 

*  Heed  rather  to  preserve  than  to  cure  your  health ;  and 
beware  of  physicians.'  He  added  with  a  smile,  good-natured 
yet  malicious,  *  Every  man  scrapes  up  his  money  only  to  give 
it  to  them,  the  destroyers  of  lives.' 

# 
The  Master  has  taken  in  hand  a  treatise  on  painting ;  the 
Lord  knows  when  he  will  finish  it.  Latterly  he  has  been 
much  busied  (I  likewise,  helping  him)  with  aerial  and  line 
perspective,  both  in  light  and  shade,  and  he  has  given  me 
'discourses  and  fugitive  thoughts  upon  art.  I  will  now  write 
down  such  as  I  can  remember  of  the  noblest  of  sciences;  and 
may  those  into  whose  hands  these  pages  shall  fall,  remember 
in  their  prayers  the  soul  of  the  great  Florentine  master, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  the  soul  of  Giovanni  Boltrafno,  his 
humble  disciple. 

The  Master  says  'All  which  is  beautiful,  even  humanly 
beautiful,  dies,  except  in  art.  (Cosa  bella  mortal  passa  e  non 
(Tarte.) 

1  He  who  despises  painting  despises  the  philosophical  and 
refined  contemplation  of  the  world.  Painting  is  the  grand- 
child of  Nature  and  the  kinswoman  of  God.' 

# 

*  77  pittore  deve  tssere  universale.  O  painter,  be  thy  variety 
infinite  as  the  phenomena  of  Nature  !  Carrying  on  what  God 
has  begun,  seek  to  multiply,  not  the  works  of  men's  hands, 


136  THE  FORERUNNER 

but  those  of  the  eternal  hands  of  God.     Imitate  no  one ;  let 
thy  every  work  be  a  new  phenomenon  of  Nature.' 

*  For  him  who  is  master  of  the  fundamental  natural  laws  ; 
for  him  who  knows,  it  is  easy  to  be  universal ;  because  all 
bodies,  whether  of  men  or  of  beasts,  are  really  formed  on  the 
same  principles.' 

# 

*  Take  heed  lest  in  thee  the  greed  for  gold  suffocate  the  love 
of  art ;  and  remember  that  the  conquest  of  glory  excels  the 
glory  of  conquest.  The  memory  of  the  rich  perishes  with 
them,  the  memory  of  the  wise  endures  for  ever ;  because 
science  and  wisdom  are  the  legitimate  children  of  their 
father,  and  money  is  but  his  bastard.  Love  glory,  and  be 
not  fearful  of  poverty.  Consider  how  many  philosophers 
have  laid  down  the  wealth  to  which  they  were  born,  that 
they  might  enrich  their  souls  with  virtue,  and  have  lived 
content  in  misery.' 

# 
1  Knowledge  rejuvenates  the  soul,  and  lightens  the  burden 
of  old  age.    Therefore  gather  wisdom,  that  thou  mayest  gather 
sweets  for  thine  age.' 

# 
1  There  is  a  generation  of  painters  who,  to  hide  their  meagre 
knowledge,  shelter  themselves  behind  the  beauty  of  gold  and 
azure,  and  say  they  give  not  of  their  best  because  of  the 
scanty  payment  they  receive,  and  that  they  could  surpass 
any  man  were  they  as  well  rewarded  as  he.  O  fools  !  what 
hinders  them  to  make  something  beautiful,  and  to  say, 
"  This  picture  is  such  a  price,  and  this  other  is  less,  and  thi$ 
third  least  of  all;  showing  that  they  have  work  for  every 
price?'" 

# 
Not  infrequently  the  lust  for  gold  brings  even  the  good 
masters  down  to  the  level  of  craftsmen.  Thus  my  country- 
man and  comrade,  Perugino  the  Florentine,  arrived  at  such 
rapidity  of  execution,  that  once  he  replied  to  his  wife,  who 
called  him  to  dinner,  "  Serve  the  soup  while  I  paint  one  more 
saint!"' 

# 

*  The  artist  who  has  no  mistrust  of  himself  will  never  attain 
to  the  supreme  heights  of  art.     Well  for  thee  if  thy  work  be 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO      137 

higher,  ill  for  thee  if  it  equal,  woe  to  thee  if  it  fall  below, 
thine  own  estimation  !  Pitiful  is  that  artificer  who,  persuaded 
that  he  has  produced  a  masterpiece,  questions  wonderingly 
how  God  can  have  helped  him  to  such  purpose.' 

# 

1  Listen  with  long  suffering  to  the  criticisms  which  men  pass 
on  your  picture;  and  weigh  their  words  to  see  if,  perchance, 
they,  faulting  it,  be  in  the  right.  If  they  be  right,  correct ; 
if  they  be  wrong,  feign  deafness  ;  or  if  they  be  persons  worthy 
of  notice,  show  them  their  error.  The  judgment  of  an  enemy 
is  often  nearer  the  truth  than  the  judgment  of  a  friend;  hatred  is 
often  profounder  than  love.  The  intellect  of  him  who  hates, 
sees  and  penetrates  better  than  the  intellect  of  him  who  loves. 
A  true  friend  is  like  thyself;  but  an  enemy  resembles  thee 
not,  and  in  this  is  his  strength.  Hatred  throws  light. 
Remember  this,  and  despise  not  the  criticisms  of  thine 
enemy.' 

* 

'  Bright  colours  captivate  the  vulgar,  but  the  true  artist  seeks 
not  to  please  the  vulgar,  but  the  elect.  His  pride  and  his 
aim  is  not  in  the  dazzling  by  colour,  but  in  the  performance 
of  a  miracle,  namely,  that  by  the  play  of  light  and  shadow, 
things  which  are  flat  should  appear  round.  He  who  neglecting 
the  shadows,  sacrifices  them  to  the  splendour  of  tinting,  is 
like  the  vain  babbler  who  sacrifices  significance  for  sounding 
and  furious  words.' 

# 

1  Above  all,  beware  of  coarse,  sharp  outlines.  The  shadows 
on  a  young  and  delicate  body  should  be  neither  dead  nor 
stony,  but  light,  evasive,  and  transparent  like  air;  for  the 
human  body  is  itself  transparent,  as  you  can  convince  your- 
self by  looking  through  your  fingers  at  the  sun.  Too  brilliant 
a  light  gives  not  good  shadows;  wherefore  be  wary  of  it. 
Observe  the  tenderness  and  charm  on  the  faces  of  men  and 
women  as  they  pass  along  the  shadowed  street  between  the 
dark  walls  of  the  houses  under  twilight  on  clouded  days. 
This  is  the  most  perfect  light;  your  shadow,  gradually 
vanishing  into  the  light,  will  fade  like  smoke — like  a  soft 
music.  Remember  that  between  the  light  and  the  dark 
there  is  something  which  participates  in  both;  a  bright 
shadow  or  a  dark  light.  Seek  for  it,  O  painter !  for  therein 
lies  the  secret  of  captivation — of  charm.' 


138  THE  FORERUNNER 

These  words  he  spoke,  and  raising  his  hands  as  if  wishing 
to  imprint  the  lesson  on  our  memories,  he  repeated,  with 
indescribable  emphasis,  'Reject  coarse  and  heavy  outlines; 
confound  your  shadows  in  the  light,  letting  them  vanish  little 
by  little,  like  smoke ;  like  a  tender  music.' 

Cesare,  who  was  listening  attentively,  raised  his  eyes  and 
smiled,  as  if  about  to  dispute ;  nevertheless  he  remained 
silent. 

# 

Later,  speaking  on  another  topic,  Leonardo  said : — 

*  Falsehood  is  so  shameful  that  even  in  praising  God  it 
dishonours  Him.  Truth  is  so  excellent  that  in  speaking  of 
the  vile  it  ennobles.  Between  truth  and  falsehood  there  is  a 
difference  no  less  than  between  light  and  darkness.' 

Here  Cesare,  suddenly  struck  by  an  idea,  fixed  scrutinising 
eyes  on  the  Master. 

'  How?'  he  said.  'Yet,  Master,  have  you  not  told  us  that 
between  the  darkness  and  the  light  there  exists  an  inter- 
mediary, something  which  participates  in  both,  and  is,  as  it 
were,  bright  shadow  and  dark  light.  Then,  between  truth 
and  lie — but  no,  'tis  absurd.  Master,  your  metaphor  lands 
me  in  great  temptation  !  For  the  painter  who,  you  say,  seeks 
enslaving  charm  in  the  compounding  of  light  and  shadow, 
may  rightly  seek  also  the  twilight  between  true  and  false.' 

At  first  Leonardo  frowned,  and  seemed  indignant  that  one 
of  his  pupils  should  exhibit  such  an  obsession;  then  he 
replied  smiling : — 

'  Tempt  me  not !     Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  ! ' 

I  had  expected  a  different  answer ;  to  my  thinking,  Cesare's 
words  merited  better  than  an  idle  jest.  In  me,  at  any  rate 
they  excited  a  tumult  of  strange  and  tormenting  ideao. 

To-night  I  beheld  him,  standing  in  the  rain  in  a  close  and 
fetid  alley,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  certain  spots  of 
dampness  on  a  stone.  He  stood  there  a  long  while,  and  the 
urchins  in  the  street  nudged  each  other  and  mocked  him.  I 
asked  him  what  he  beheld  in  the  stone. 

*  Giovanni,'  he  said,  '  see  the  splendid  monstrous  figure ! 
Chimera,  with  her  jaws  wide  ;  and  beside  her  an  angel  with 
flying  hair  and  airy  flight,  fleeing  from  the  monster.  The 
caprice  of  chance  has  produced  a  picture  worthy  of  a  great 
artist.' 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO      139 

He  traced  with  his  ringer  the  outline  of  the  damp  spot, 
and  to  my  amazement  I  recognised  that  what  he  said  was 
true. 

'Many,'  he  said,  'think  this  habit  of  mine  an  absurdity; 
but  experience  has  taught  me  how  useful  it  is  for  the  educa- 
tion of  the  fancy.  I  have  taken  from  such  things  what  I 
wanted,  and  brought  them  to  completeness.  Listen  to  far- 
off  bells ;  you  can  find  in  their  confused  clang  the  very  names 
and  words  you  lack.' 

For  tears  the  eye-brows  contract ;  for  laughter  they  expand. 

The  Master  goes  gladly  with  those  condemned  to  death, 
watching  in  their  faces  the  degrees  of  their  agony  and  terror; 
and  the  very  executioners  wonder  at  him,  when  he  makes 
a  study  of  the  last  quivering  of  the  muscles. 

1  Nay,  Giovanni,  you  understand  not  the  man  he  is ! ' 
cried  Cesare.  ■  He  will  lift  a  worm  from  the  path  lest  his  foot 
crush  it ;  but  if  his  own  mother  were  a-dying  he  would  watch 
the  contracting  of  her  eyebrows,  the  wrinkling  of  her  fore- 
head, the  drooping  of  the  corners  of  the  mouth.' 

1  Note  the  expression  and  the  gestures  of  deaf-mutes.' 

'  When  you  watch  persons,  do  it  without  letting  them  know ; 
so  shall  their  movements,  their  laughter,  and  their  tears  be 
more  natural.' 

'An  artist  whose  own  hands  are  angular  and  bony,  is  apt  to 
depict  people  with  angular  and  bony  hands ;  for  every  man 
likes  the  faces  and  the  bodies  which  resemble  his  own.  The 
ugly  painter  will  choose  ugly  models,  and  vice  versa.  Let  not 
the  men  and  the  women  whom  you  paint  seem  your  blood- 
brothers  either  in  beauty  or  in  deformity.  This  is  a  fault 
which  attaches  to  many  Italian  artists.  In  painting  there  is 
no  error  more  treacherous.  I  consider  the  temptation  arises 
from  the  fact  that  the  soul  makes  the  body  which  belongs  to 
it.  Of  old  it  shaped  and  fashioned  it  in  its  own  likeness; 
and  now  when  again  it  is  called  upon  to  fashion  a  new  body 
with  brushes  and  paint,  it  yearns  to  reproduce  the  shape  in 
which  it  has  long  had  its  habitation.' 


Mo  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  Master  tells  us,  "Tis  not  experience,  the  mother  of  all 
arts  and  sciences,  which  deceives  men,  but  imagination,  which 
promises  them  what  experience  cannot  give.  Experience 
is  not  to  blame,  but  our  own  vain  and  senseless  lusts. 
Experience  would  have  us  aim  at  the  possible,  and  not  strive 
ignorantly  for  what  we  can  never  obtain  ;  lest  we  become  the 
prey  of  despair.' 

When  we  were  alone  Cesare  repeated  these  words,  and 
cried  as  in  disgust : — 

'  Hypocrisy  and  lies  ! ' 

'  How  has  he  lied  ?  '  asked  I. 

*  Not  to  aim  at  the  impossible  !  not  to  follow  the  unattain- 
able !  Well,  it  may  be  some  one  will  believe  his  words,  but 
'twill  not  be  I  nor  you !  I  have  penetrated  to  his  inmost 
soul.' 

1  And  what  see  you  there,  Cesare? ' 

'All  his  life  through,  he  has  done  nothing  but  aim  at 
the  impossible,  nothing  but  follow  the  unattainable !  What 
else  is  he  about  in  this  machine  to  turn  men  into  birds, 
in  that  other  to  set  them  in  water  like  fish?  And  the 
chimerical  monsters  he  finds  in  the  spots  on  walls  and 
in  the  outline  of  the  clouds;  and  the  mystic  charm  of 
divine  faces  seen  in  angelic  visions — whence  does  he  derive 
all  this?  From  experience?  from  his  diagram  of  noses, 
and  his  ladle  for  measuring  out  paint  ?  Why  does  he  deceive 
himself?  Why  lie?  His  mechanical  studies  are  for  the 
performance  of  a  miracle;  for  raising  himself  into  heaven 
by  flight,  for  using  natural  forces  to  do  that  which  is  against 
Nature.  He  stretches  out  towards  God  or  devil,  he  cares 
not  which,  provided  'tis  something  unexampled,  beyond 
possibility.  The  less  is  his  faith,  the  greater  is  his  quenchless 
curiosity.' 

These  words  of  Cesare's  have  filled  my  soul  with  anxiety. 
For  several  days  I  have  thought  them  over:  I  would  fain 
forget  them,  but  I  cannot. 

To-day,  however,  the  Master,  as  if  in  answer  to  my  doubts, 
has  said  to  me  : — 

'A  little  knowledge  puffs  up;  great  knbwledge  makes 
humble.  Blasted  ears  raise  proud  heads ;  those  full  of  grain 
bow  down.' 

1  Then,'  asked  Cesare  with  his  accustomed  ironic  smile, 
'how  happed  it  that  Lucifer,  prince  of  the  cherubim,  and 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO      141 

renowned  for  wisdom,  was  moved  by  wisdom  not  to  humility, 
but  to  pride  that  cast  him  into  hell  ? ' 

Leonardo  did  not  answer  at  once;  presently  he  told  us 
this  fable. 

1  Once  a  drop  of  water  aspired  to  reach  the  sky.  Winged 
by  fire,  it  rose  up  in  fine  steam.  But  mounted  on  high  it 
met  air  still  finer  and  very  cold,  and  the  fire  deserted  it. 
Then  it  shivered  and  grew  heavy,  and,  its  presumption 
changing  into  terror,  fell  as  rain.  And  cast  down  from 
heaven  it  fell  upon  the  earth,  and  was  drunk  up  by  dry- 
ness ;  and  for  long  time  it  was  shut  up  in  prison  underground, 
and  there  did  penance  for  its  sin.' 

He  added  no  more,  but  I  thought  I  understood. 

The  longer  I  live  with  him  the  less  I  know  him.  To-day 
he  has  again  been  playing  like  a  child.  And  such  strange 
pranks !  Before  going  to  bed  I  was  sitting  in  my  chamber 
reading  my  favourite  book,  The  Little  Flowers  of  Saint 
Francis,  when  suddenly  a  cry  rang  through  the  house  from 
our  old  woman,  the  kind  and  faithful  Maturina — 

'Fire!     Help!     Help!     Fire!' 

I  rushed  out.  An  appallingly  thick  white  smoke  filled  the 
Master's  studio.  He  was  there  himself,  standing  among 
clouds  like  some  ancient  mage,  and  illumined  by  unearthly 
blue  flames.  His  face  was  merry,  and  he  looked  jovially 
at  the  pale  and  terrified  Maturina,  and  at  Marco,  who  had 
rushed  in  with  two  buckets  of  water,  to  empty  over  the 
drawings  and  manuscripts  strewing  the  table.  Leonardo, 
however,  stopped  him,  saving  it  was  all  a  jest.  Smoke  and 
flames  came  from  a  heated  brazier  containing  a  powder  of 
frankincense  and  resin.  I  cannot  say  which  took  the  greater 
pleasure  in  the  joke,  Leonardo  or  the  little  scamp,  that 
jackanapes  Jacopo.  Only  a  good  man  could  laugh  as  does 
Leonardo  !  I  swear  it  is  not  true  what  Cesare  says  of  him  ! 
The  Master  set  down  in  his  note-book  the  effect  produced  by 
terror  upon  Maturina's  wrinkles. 

# 

He  speaks  scarce  at  all  of  women.  Once,  however,  he  said 
that  men  maltreat  them  even  as  the/  do  their  beasts.  He 
ridicules  the  platonic  love  which  is  the  fashion  ;  and  when  a 
certain  youth  read  to  him  a  peevish  sonnet  in  the  manner  of 


i42  THE  FORERUNNER 

Petrarch,  he  replied  in  three  lines,  about  Petrarch's  loving 
Laura  merely  to  season  his  own  daily  food. 

Cesare  says  that  Leonardo  has  so  wasted  himself  on 
mechanics  and  geometry  that  he  has  hnd  no  time  for  love  of 
women.  But  he  adds,  depend  upon  it  he  is  no  Galahad  ;  he 
must  certainly  have  embraced  a  woman  at  least  once,  out 
of  mere  curiosity. 

# 

I  should  never  have  talked  to  Cesare  about  Leonardo.  We 
seem  to  watch  him  like  spies,  and  Cesare  finds  a  malevolent 
pleasure  in  detecting  new  blots  in  his  character.  And  what 
does  Cesare  want  with  me ?     Why  does  he  poison  my  mind? 

We  now  frequently  visit  a  scurvy  little  tavern  by  the 
Cantarana  Canal,  just  beyond  the  Porta  Vercellina.  We  talk 
for  hours  over  a  half-flagon  of  sour  wine,  amid  the  oaths  of 
boatmen  who  finger  filthy  cards  and  lay  plots  together  for 
extortion.  To-day  Cesare  asked  me  if  I  knew  that  at 
Florence  Leonardo  had  been  accused  of  immorality.  I  could 
not  believe  my  ears,  and  thought  him  raving  or  drunken.  Then 
he  told  me  the  story  in  detail.  When  Leonardo  was  twenty- 
four  years  of  age,  and  his  master,  the  famous  Florentine, 
Andrea  Verrocchio,  forty — an  anonymous  charge  against  them 
both  was  put  into  one  of  those  round  wooden  boxes  called 
tamburi)  which  hang  on  the  pillars  in  the  churches,  most 
notably  in  the  Cathedral  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore.  In  April 
1  the  guardians  of  the  night  and  of  monasteries '  inquired  into 
the  matter,  and  acquitted  the  accused  on  the  condition,  how- 
ever, that  the  charge  should  be  repeated.  The  fresh  accusa- 
tion was  made  in  June,  and  they  both  were  finally  acquitted. 
Nothing  more  was  heard  of  the  accusation ;  but  Leonardo 
soon  left  Verrocchio  and  Florence,  and  came  hither  to  Milan. 

'Oh,  doubtless, 'tis  an  abominable  calumny/  said  Cesare 
with  his  meaning  smile  ;  '  though,  friend  Giovanni,  you  do  not 
yet  know  what  contradictions  nestle  in  his  heart.  'Tis  a 
labvrinth  so  intricate  that  even  the  devil  would  lose  himself 
therein.     He  certainly  appears  chaste,  but ' 

I  had  started  to  my  feet,  probably  pale  enough,  and  cried : — 

1  How  dare  you,  Cesare  ? ' 

'What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you?  Calm  yourself. 
I  will  say  no  more.  I  was  a  hundred  miles  from  that 
construction ' 

*  What  are  you  insinuating  ?    Speak  out ! ' 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO      143 

'What  folly  is  this?  Why  so  hot?  Is  it  worth  the 
separating  of  two  such  friends  as  we  ?  Rather  let  us  drink. 
To  your  health,  sir.     In  vino  Veritas? 

And  we  drank  and  resumed  our  talk. 

But  no,  no  !  this  suffices  !  I  will  forget  it ;  I  will  abstain 
from  speaking  of  the  Master  with  this  man.  Cesare  is  not  his 
enemy  alone,  but  also  mine.     He  is  a  bad  fellow. 

Now  I  feel  nauseated.  It  is  odious  to  see  the  hideous 
delight  some  men  feel  when  they  have  thrown  mud  upon 
the  great. 

# 

The  Master  says:  'Thy  strength,  O  painter,  is  in  solitude! 
When  you  are  alone  you  belong  wholly  to  yourself  (Se  tu 
sarai  solo  tu  sarai  tutto  tuo),  but  if  you  have  even  one  com- 
panion then  you  are  only  half  your  own ;  possibly  less  than 
half  if  your  friend  be  indiscreet.  If  you  have  many  friends, 
you  fall  deeper  into  the  same  slough.  And  if  you  say,  "I 
will  withdraw  myself,  and  practise  the  contemplation  of 
Nature,"  you  will  not  succeed,  for  you  will  be  lending  one  ear 
to  the  chatterings  of  your  friends,  and  inasmuch  as  no  man 
can  serve  two  masters,  you  will  perform  ill  the  duties  of  a 
friend,  and  still  worse  the  observances  of  art.  And  if  you 
say,  "  I  will  withdraw  beyond  the  reach  of  their  voices,"  then 
you  will  be  reckoned  a  madman,  and  you  practically  end 
by  being  alone. 

'But  if  you  must  have  company,  let  it  be  that  of  the 
painters  and  scholars  in  your  studio;  all  other  friendships 
will  be  to  your  detriment.  Remember,  O  painter,  that  your 
strength  is  in  solitude  ! ' 

Leonardo  consorts  not  with  women,  because  his  soul 
must  be  absolutely  free. 

# 

Sometimes  Andrea  Salaino  complains  that  our  existence 
alternates  between  the  monotony  of  hard  work  and  the  tedium 
of  inaction  ;  and  he  declares  that  the  pupils  of  other  Masters 
lead  a  gayer  life.  He  is  as  fond  of  fine  clothes  as  a  maid, 
and  would  like  the  noise  of  feastings  and  merriment  and  the 
fire  of  amorous  eyes. 

Leonardo  to-day,  having  overheard  the  reproaches  and 
laments  of  his  favourite,  stroked  his  long  curls  affectionately, 
and  said  smiling : — 


i44  THE  FORERUNNER 

*  Be  of  good  cheer,  lad.  I  '11  take  you  to  the  next  feast 
at  the  castle.     Meantime,  shall  I  tell  you  a  fable? ' 

Andrea  clapped  his  hands  like  a  child,  and  threw  himself 
at  the  Master's  feet,  all  attention.     Leonardo  began : — 

*  Once  upon  a  time  a  large  stone,  lately  washed  up  by  the 
stream,  lay  in  a  retired  place  high  up  above  the  road  and 
surrounded  by  trees,  moss,  flowers,  and  grasses.  Looking 
down  on  his  road  he  saw  a  number  of  stones  like  himself, 
and  he  said,  "  What  profit  have  I  here  among  these  short-lived 
plants?  I  will  descend  among  my  kinsmen  and  live  with 
stones  like  myself."  Thereupon  he  rolled  himself  down  to  the 
road,  and  took  a  place  amongst  his  brothers.  And  the  wheels 
of  heavy  wains  ground  him,  and  the  hoof  of  the  ass,  and 
the  nailed  boot  of  the  pedestrian.  Then  he  lifted  himself  a 
little,  and  thought  he  should  breathe  more  freely ;  but,  lo  ! 
became  bespattered  with  mud,  and  the  droppings  of  animals; 
and  his  former  fair  retreat  in  the  garden  of  flowers  seemed  to 
him  a  paradise.  Thus  it  is,  Andrea,  with  those  who  leave 
their  meditation  and  plunge  into  city  disquiet.' 

* 
The  master  permits  harm  to  no  living  creatures,  not  even 
to  plants.  Zoroastro  tells  me  that  from  an  early  age  he  has 
abjured  meat,  and  says  that  the  time  shall  come  when  all 
men  such  as  he  will  be  content  with  a  vegetable  diet,  and 
will  think  on  the  murder  of  animals  as  now  they  think  on  the 
murder  of  men. 

# 

To-day  we  passed  by  a  butcher's  shop,  and  he  pointed  to 
the  dead  carcases  of  calves  and  oxen  and  pigs,  and  said  with 
disgust : — '  Truly  man  is  the  king  of  beasts,  for  his  brutality 
exceeds  theirs.'  And  then  added  sorrowfully:  'We  live  by 
the  death  of  others.     We  are  burial-places.' 

* 

God  forgive  me,  I  have  again  been  with  Cesare  to  that 
accursed  tavern  !  We  spoke  of  the  Master's  compassion- 
ateness  for  animals. 

'You  refer,  Giovanni,  to  his  eating  no  flesh? ' 

*  It  may  be  so.     I  know ' 

'You  know  nothing  !     Messer  Leonardo  is  not  moved  by 
goodness,  but  by  the  love  of  singularity.' 
'  What  mean  you  by  that  ? ' 
He  laughed  somewhat  forcedly. 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO      145 

*  Peace.  Let  us  not  quarrel.  Wait,  and  I  will  show  you 
certain  of  his  drawings — i'  faith,  very  interesting  drawings.' 

So  upon  our  return  we  crept,  thief-like,  into  the  Master's 
studio.  Cesare  rummaged  till  he  had  found  a  certain  con- 
cealed sketch-book  which  he  showed  to  me.  My  conscience 
pricked  me ;  nevertheless  I  looked  with  interest. 

They  were  drawings  of  colossal  bombards,  explosive  balls, 
many-barrelled  guns,  and  such  like  engines  of  war,  executed 
with  no  less  delicacy  than  he  lavished  on  the  divine  coun- 
tenances of  his  Madonnas.  Especially  do  I  remember  one 
bomb,  half  a  braccio  in  diameter,  called  '  Fragilita,'  the  con- 
struction of  which  Cesare  explained  to  me.  It  was  cast  of 
bronze,  the  hollow  within  being  filled  with  layers  of  gypsum. 
Leonardo  had  written  on  the  margin  beside  the  sketch  : — 

'Most  beautiful  bomb.  Very  useful.  After  leaving  the 
gun  it  ignites  while  one  might  pronounce  an  Ave  Maria.' 

1  Ave  Maria!'  cried  Cesare.  'How  does  this  use  of  a 
Christian  prayer  please  you,  my  friend  ?  You  see  the  breed 
of  his  inventions !  And  have  you  heard  his  definition  of 
war?' 

'No.' 

' "  Pazzia  bestialissima,  the  most  brutal  of  madnesses."  A 
pretty  definition,  methinks,  for  the  inventor  of  these  engines. 
Here  is  your  holy  man  who  eats  no  flesh,  who  lifts  a  worm 
from  the  path  lest  a  boot  should  tread  on  it !  Both  one  and 
the  other  simultaneously !  to-day  a  devil,  to-morrow  a  saint. 
A  Janus,  with  one  face  toward  Christ,  the  other  towards  Anti- 
christ. Which  is  the  true  Leonardo,  which  the  false !  Who 
can  say?  And  he  does  it  all  with  a  light  heart,  with  a  mystic 
seductive  grace.     He  is  at  play' 

I  listened  in  silence,  a  chill  like  the  chill  of  death  piercing 
my  heart. 

'  Eh  ?  What  is  the  matter,  friend  Giovanni  ?  Quite  chap- 
fallen?  You  take  it  overmuch  to  heart.  Oh,  you'll  soon 
be  used  to  it,  just  as  I  am.  And  now  let  us  go  back  to 
the  Tartaruga  d'oro,  and  sing : — 

"  Dum  vinum  potamus 
Fratelli  cantiamo 
A  Bacco  sia  onore  ! 
Te  deum  laudamus."  ' 

I  said  no  word,  but  fled  from  him. 
K 


146  THE  FORERUNNER 

To-day  Marco  d'Oggionno  said  to  the  Master : — 

'  Messer  Leonardo,  they  accuse  us  of  too  scanty  church- 
going,  and  of  work  on  holy  days  as  on  others.' 

'  Let  bigots  talk  at  leisure,  and  heed  them  not,'  answered 
Leonardo.  'The  study  of  Nature  is  well-pleasing  to  God, 
and  is  akin  to  prayer.  Learning  the  laws  of  Nature,  we 
magnify  the  first  Inventor,  the  Designer  of  the  world ;  and 
we  learn  to  love  Him,  for  great  love  of  God  results  from  great 
knowledge.  Who  knows  little,  loves  little.  If  you  love  the 
Creator  for  the  favour  you  expect  of  Him,  and  not  for  His 
most  high  goodness  and  strength,  wherein  do  you  excel  the 
dog  who  licks  his  master's  hand  in  the  hope  of  dainties? 
But  reflect  how  that  worthy  beast,  the  dog,  would  adore  his 
master  could  he  comprehend  his  reason  and  his  soul !  Re- 
member, children,  love  is  the  daughter  of  knowledge ;  and 
the  deeper  the  knowledge  of  God  the  greater  the  fervency 
of  love.  Wherefore  in  the  Scripture  it  is  written,  "Be  ye  wise 
as  serpents  and  harmless  as  doves."' 

4  But  who,'  retorted  Cesare,  'can  combine  the  sweetness 
of  the  dove  with  the  cunning  of  the  serpent  ?  To  my  thinking 
we  must  choose  between  the  two.' 

'  Not  so,'  cried  Leonardo ;  '  there  must  be  a  fusion.     I 

TELL    YOU     PERFECT     KNOWLEDGE    OF    THE    UNIVERSE     AND 
PERFECT  LOVE  OF  GOD  ARE  ONE  THING  AND  THE  SAME.' 

How  fain  would  I  return  to  thy  silent  and  holy  cell,  O 
Fra  Benedetto!  Tell  thee  all  my  grief,  and  fall  upon  thy 
breast,  that  thou  mightest  pity  me  and  remove  from  my 
soul  this  burden,  O  beloved  father !  O  gentle  shepherd,  who 
dost  abide  by  the  word  of  Christ — '  Blessed  are  the  poor  in 
spirit ! ' 

• 

At  times  the  Master's  face  is  so  peaceful  and  innocent,  so 
full  of  dovelike  harmlessness,  that  I  am  ready  to  pardon  all,  to 
believe  all,  to  trust  him  with  my  very  soul.  Then  of  a  sudden 
the  subtle  lines  of  his  lips  take  on  an  expression  so  incompre- 
hensible, something  which  so  inspires  me  with  fear,  that  I 
seem  to  be  looking  through  the  transparency  of  water  into 
the  profundity  of  the  abyss.  There  is  in  his  soul  some 
impenetrable  mystery ;  and  I  recall  one  of  his  sayings : — 

•  Very  deep  rivers  flow  underground.' 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO       147 

The  Duke  Gian  Galeazzo  is  dead;  and  they  say  that 
Leonardo  has  been  the  occasion  of  his  death  by  means  of 
poisoned  fruit.  God  is  my  witness,  that  'tis  not  of  my  own 
will  I  lend  an  ear  unto  this  terrible  accusation,  and  that  I 
would  fain  reject  it  out  of  hand.  Yet  there  stands  ever  before 
my  eyes  that  vision  of  the  tree,  with  its  leaves  distilling  dew, 
and  its  fatal  fruit  maturing  in  the  greenish  mist,  lit  by  the 
moon,  pregnant  with  terror  and  death.  Oh,  that  I  had  never 
seen  it ! 

*  "  Of  every  tree  of  the  garden  thou  mayest  freely  eat ;  but 
of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  thou  shalt  not 
eat  of  it,  for  in  the  day  that  thou  eatest  thereof  thou  shalt 
surely  die."' 

* 

Out  of  the  depths  I  cry  unto  thee,  O  Lord  !  Lord  hear  my 
voice ;  let  Thine  ears  be  attentive  to  the  voice  of  my  suppli- 
cations !  Like  the  thief  upon  the  Cross,  I  confess  Thy  name  : 
Remember  me,  O  Lord,  when  Thou  comest  into  Thy  kingdom. 

# 

Leonardo  has  begun  to  work  on  the  countenance  of  the 
Christ. 

The  duke  has  commanded  him  to  construct  an  engine 
for  raising  the  Holy  Nail.  With  mathematical  accuracy 
he  weighs  in  a  scale  the  instrument  of  the  Passion  of  the 
Saviour,  as  if  it  were  a  fragment  of  old  iron ;  so  many 
ounces,  so  many  grains.  To  him  it  is  only  a  figure  among 
figures;  a  part  among  parts  of  a  lifting  machine;  ropes, 
wheels,  levers,  and  pulleys. 

# 

Says  the  apostle,  ■  Little  children,  it  is  the  last  time  :  and 
as  ye  have  heard  that  Antichrist  shall  come,  even  now  are 
there  many  antichrists,  whereby  we  know  that  it  is  the  last 
time.' 

To-night  a  crowd  of  people  demanding  the  Holy  Nail  sur- 
rounded our  house,  crying,  'Sorcerer!  infidel!  poisoner! 
Antichrist ! '  Amused,  Leonardo  listened  to  the  howl  of  the 
mob,  and  when  Marco  would  have  discharged  his  arquebus 
at  them,  it  was  the  Master  who  restrained  him. 

The  Master  did  not  change  from  his  impenetrable  serenity, 


148  THE  FORERUNNER 

and  when  I  fell  at  his  feet  supplicating  a  word,  a  single  word, 
to  dispel  my  doubts — and  I  swear  by  God  I  should  have 
believed  him — he  would  not  or  could  not  speak. 

Little  Jacopo,  stealing  out,  evaded  the  crowd,  and  having 
met  the  guard  of  the  captain  of  justice,  led  them  to  the 
house :  and  at  the  instant  when  the  doors  were  giving  way 
under  the  weight  and  the  blows  of  the  crowd,  soldiers  took 
them  in  the  rear,  and  the  rioters  scattered.  Jacopo  is 
wounded,  struck  on  the  head  by  a  stone,  and  like  to  die. 

• 
To-day  I  assisted  in  the  cathedral  at  the  Feast  of  the  most 
Holy  Nail.  At  the  moment  recommended  by  the  astrologers 
it  was  raised  on  high.  Leonardo's  machine  acted  without  a 
hitch :  neither  rope  nor  pulley  was  visible.  Through  clouds 
of  incense  the  round  casket  with  the  crystal  sides  and  the 
golden  rays  in  which  the  nail  was  set,  rose  of  itself  like  the 
rising  sun.  'Twas  a  triumph  of  mechanics  !  The  choir 
sang : — 

'  Confixa  clavis  viscera 

Tendens  manus  vestigia 

Redemptionis  gratia, 

Hie  immolata  est  Hostia.' 

Then  the  casket  was  arrested  and  lodged  in  a  dark  niche 
above  the  high  altar,  surrounded  by  five  ever-flaming  lamps. 

The  Archbishop  intoned : — 

1  O  Crux  benedicta  quae  sola  fuisti  digna  portare  Regem 
ccelorum  et  Dominum,  Alleluia  / ' 

The  whole  assembled  multitude  fell  on  their  knees  repeating 
Alleluia ! 

And  the  usurper  of  the  throne  of  Milan,  Ludovico  the 
assassin,  prostrated  himself  with  the  rest,  and  weeping,  raised 
his  hands  to  the  Holy  Nail. 

After  which  the  populace  was  glutted  with  wine,  with  the 
flesh  of  beasts,  with  five  thousand  measures  of  pease,  and  six 
hundredweight  of  salt.  Forgetting  their  murdered  lord,  they 
feasted  and  drank,  and  cried — '  Viva  IlMorol    Viva  il  Chiodol  ■ 

Bellincioni  has  composed  some  hexameters,  in  which  we 
learn  that  by  virtue  of  the  ancient  nail  of  iron  the  age  of  gold 
shall  be  renewed. 

After  leaving  the  cathedral  the  duke  came  to  Leonardo  and 
embraced  him;  kissing  his  lips,  calling  him  his  Archimedes, 
and,  thanking  him  for  the  beautiful  machine,  he  promised  to 


THE  DIARY  OF  GIOVANNI  BOLTRAFFIO      149 

present  him  with  a  pure-blooded  Barbary  mare  and  two 
thousand  imperial  ducats.  Then  condescendingly  tapping 
him  on  the  shoulder,  he  said,  '  Now  you  '11  have  time  to  finish 
the  head  of  your  Christ.' 

# 
*  A  double-minded  man  is  unstable  in  all  his  ways.' 
I  can  no  longer  endure  my  torment ;  I  perish ;  I  become 
crazed !     My  reason  loses  itself  in  the  duplicity  of  these 
thoughts. 

Fly,  fly,  ere  it  be  too  late ! 

# 

I  rose  in  the  night-time,  tied  up  my  clothes  and  my  books 
in  a  bundle,  took  a  thick  stick,  felt  my  way  through  the 
darkness  to  the  studio,  where  I  left  on  the  table  the  thirty 
florins  which  I  owe  for  the  last  six  months'  teaching — I  have 
sold  my  mother's  emerald  ring  to  do  this — and  without 
leave-takings,  abandoned  Leonardo's  house  for  ever. 

# 

Fra  Benedetto  tells  me  that  from  the  time  I  left  him  he 
has  not  ceased  to  pray  for  me ;  and  he  has  had  a  revelation 
in  his  sleep  that  God  has  brought  me  back  into  the  true  path. 
He  is  faring  to  Florence  to  visit  his  sick  brother,  a  Dominican 
in  the  monastery  of  San  Marco,  where  Fra  Girolamo  Savona- 
rola is  prior. 

• 

Praise  and  thanksgiving  unto  Thee,  O  Lord  !  Thou  hast 
brought  me  out  of  the  shadow  of  death,  from  the  mouth  of 
the  pit.  I  renounce  to-day  the  wisdom  of  this  world,  upon 
which  is  the  seal  of  the  dragon  with  the  seven  heads,  the  beast 
which  walketh  in  darkness,  which  is  Antichrist.  I  renounce 
the  fruit  of  the  poisonous  tree  of  knowledge,  the  pride  of  vain 
understanding,  of  that  wisdom  which  is  inimical  to  God,  of 
whom  the  Devil  is  the  father. 

I  renounce  every  aspiration  after  the  enchantments  of  the 
world.  I  renounce  all  that  is  not  subordinated  to  Thy  glory, 
Thy  will,  Thy  wisdom,  O  Christ ! 

Illumine  my  soul  with  Thy  light,  deliver  me  from  fatal 
duplicity  of  thought ;  make  sure  my  footsteps  in  Thy  paths, 
and  shelter  me  under  the  shadow  of  Thy  wings. 


ISO  THE  FORERUNNER 

My  soul,  praise  the  Lord  !  I  will  praise  the  Lord  so  long 
as  I  have  my  being ;  I  will  yet  sing  praises  unto  mv  God. 

# 

Two  days  hence,  Fra  Benedetto  and  I  go  to  Florence.  I 
desire,  with  the  blessing  of  this  my  second  father,  to  enter 
as  novice  in  the  Convent  of  San  Marco,  under  the  guidance  of 
the  holy  and  elect  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola. 


Here  ends  the  diary  of  Giovanni  Boltraffio. 


BOOK    VII 

THE   BONFIRE   OF   VANITIES — 1 496 

'  Dov'  I piii  sentimento,  li  t />zu,  ne'  martiri,  gran  martire.' 

Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(He  who  feels  most,  is  the  greatest  of  the  martyrs.) 

•A  double-minded  man  is  unstable  in  all  his  ways.' 

St.  James  i.  8. 


More  than  a  year  had  passed  since  Giovanni  Boltraffio  had 
been  received  as  a  novice  in  the  Convent  of  San  Marco. 

On  a  winter's  day  towards  the  close  of  the  carnival  of  1496, 
shortly  after  noon,  Fra  Girolamo  was  writing  the  account  of  a 
vision  which  had  lately  appeared  to  him.  He  had  seen  two 
crosses  waving  above  the  city  of  Rome,  one  black  and 
enveloped  in  storm,  inscribed — '  The  Cross  of  the  fury  of  the 
Lord ' ;  the  other  of  gleaming  azure,  with  the  inscription — 
'The  Cross  of  the  Lord's  mercy.' 

February  sunshine  flooded  the  narrow  cell  with  its  white 
and  naked  walls,  great  black  crucifix,  and  the  thick  parchment 
books  in  antique  leather.  Now  and  then  from  the  blue  sky 
came  the  joyous  twitter  of  the  swallows. 

Fra  Girolamo  felt  unwonted  weariness,  and  now  and  then 
trembled.  Laying  down  his  pen,  he  dropped  his  head  on 
his  hands,  closed  his  eyes,  and  meditated  upon  what  he 
had  that  morning  heard  about  Pope  Alexander  VI,  from 
Fra  Paolo,  a  monk  who  had  been  on  a  secret  mission  to 
Rome.  Monstrous  images  like  those  described  in  the 
Apocalypse  passed  and  whirled  before  the  mind  of  the 
prior;  he  saw  the  blood-stained  bull  of  the  shield  of  the 
Borgias,  reminding  him  of  Apis,  the  heathen  god ;  the  golden 

151 


152  THE  FORERUNNER 

calf  borne  before  the  pontiff  instead  of  the  humble  Lamb  of 
God ;  nightly  orgies  at  the  Vatican  in  the  presence  of  the 
Holy  Father,  of  his  favourite  daughter,  and  of  the  College  of 
Cardinals;  the  beautiful  Giulia  Farnese,  mistress  of  the 
sexagenarian  pope,  and  the  model  for  contemporary  portraits 
of  the  saints;  his  two  sons,  Cesare  the  young  Cardinal  of 
Valenza,  and  Giovanni  the  Duke  of  Candia,  who  out  of  criminal 
love  for  Lucrezia  their  sister,  hated  each  other  to  the  point 
of  fratricide.  And  haunted  by  what  Fra  Paolo  had  scarcely 
dared  to  whisper,  the  tale  of  the  strange  relations  between  the 
pope  and  this  Lucrezia  his  daughter,  Girolamo  trembled. 

'But  no,  'tis  calumny.  It  were  too  great  an  enormity! 
God  sees  that  I  cannot  believe  it,'  he  murmured. 

But  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  he  felt  that  nothing  was 
impossible  in  that  terrible  nest  of  the  Borgias,  and  drops  of 
cold  sweat  stood  out  upon  his  forehead.  He  had  fallen  on  his 
knees  before  the  crucifix,  when  a  low  knocking  was  heard  at 
the  door  of  his  cell. 

'Who  is  it?'    ' 

*  It  is  I,  father.' 

He  recognized  the  voice  of  his  trusty  friend,  Fra  Domenico 
Buonvicino. 

1  Ricciardo  Becchi,  secret  legate  from  the  pope,  prays  for 
an  audience.' 

'  Good.     Let  him  wait.    Meanwhile  send  me  Fra  Silvestro/ 

Fra  Silvestro  Maruffi  was  epileptic  and  of  weak  intellect, 
but  Fra  Girolamo,  considering  him  a  chosen  vessel  of  the  grace 
of  God,  both  loved  and  feared  him.  He  interpreted  Maruffi's 
visions  according  to  the  precise  rules  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas 
and  the  Schoolmen,  finding  by  ingenuity,  by  the  arguments 
of  logic,  by  enthymemes,  apophthegms,  and  syllogisms, 
prophetical  meaning  in  the  vain  babble  of  an  idiot.  Maruffi 
showed  no  respect  for  his  superior,  insulted  him  publicly,  and 
even  struck  him  ;  offences  which  Fra  Girolamo  received  with 
the  utmost  meekness.  So  that  if  the  people  of  Florence  were 
in  the  hands  of  Savonarola,  Savonarola  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  half-witted  Maruffi. 

Having  entered,  Fra  Silvestro  sat  on  the  floor  and  scratched 
furiously  at  his  red  and  naked  feet,  chanting  a  monotonous 
song.  His  face  was  freckled,  with  a  sharp  nose,  and  a  hanging 
lower  lip.     His  rheumy  eyes  of  a  dull  green  were  melancholy. 

1  Brother,'  said  Savonarola,  'the  pope  has  sent  me  a  secret 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES— 1496  153 

messenger.     Tell  me,  shall  I  receive  him  ?     What  should  I 
say?     Have  you  had  any  voice  or  vision?' 

Maruffi  grimaced,  barked  and  grunted.  He  had  great  gifts 
in  the  imitation  of  animals. 

*  Beloved  Brother,'  said  Savonarola,  *  be  kind  !  Speak  ! 
My  soul  faints  under  the  burden  of  mortal  sadness.  Pray 
God  that  He  illuminate  thee  with  His  spirit  of  prophecy.' 

The  other  opened  wide  his  mouth  and  rolled  his  tongue ; 
his  face  was  strangely  contorted ;  and  he  burst  out  angrily  : 

'Why  should  you  trouble  me,  you  tedious  talker,  you 
sheep's-head,  you  brainless  quail?  May  the  rats  devour  your 
nose !  You  have  made  your  bed — lie  on  it.  I  am  neither 
prophet  nor  councillor.7 

He  paused,  looked  at  Savonarola  from  under  his  scowling 
eyebrows,  and  continued  more  quietly  : — 

*  Brother,  I'm  sorry  for  you !  But  as  for  my  visions,  how 
know  you  if  they  come  from  God  or  from  the  devil  ? ' 

Silvestro  closed  his  eyes.  His  countenance  took  an  ex- 
pression of  repose.  Savonarola  held  his  breath  in  holy 
expectancy. 

Suddenly  Maruffi  opened  his  eyes,  slowly  turned  his  head 
like  one  listening,  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  a  smile  of 
good  nature,  peace,  almost  of  intelligence,  brightened  his  face. 

'The  birds!'  he  said;  'do  you  hear  the  birds?  To  be 
sure,  the  grass  is  springing  in  the  meadows,  and  the  first 
little  yellow  flowers  !  'Tis  enough.  It 's  time  to  think  of  God 
now.  Come  !  let  us  flee  this  sinful  world ;  let  us  flee  together 
to  the  desert ! '  And  rocking  himself,  he  began  to  sing  in  a 
sweet,  lazy  voice. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  ran  to  Savonarola,  seized 
his  hand  and  cried,  choking  with  excitement : — 

'I  have  seen — I  have  seen — May  the  rats  devour  your 
nose  !     You  head  of  an  ass — I  have  seen ' 

4  Speak,  dear  brother ;  speak  quickly  ! ' 

'  Flames !     Flames  ! '  cried  Maruffi. 

'Well?     And  besides?' 

'Flames  rising  from  a  stake,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  flames 
a  man ' 

'Who?' 

Nodding  his  head,  and  motioning  with  his  hand,  Silvestro 
did  not  reply  at  once ;  then  fixing  his  penetrating  eyes  on  the 
other,  he  laughed  softly  and  foolishly,  and  murmured : — 


154  THE  FORERUNNER 

'Thou!' 

'Fra  Girolamo  shuddered,  paled,  and  drew  back  involun- 
tarily. Maruffi  turned  away,  and  shambled  out  of  the  cell, 
singing  :— 

*  Hie  we  to  the  smiling  woods, 
The  shy  retreat  of  spring, 
Where  the  streams  unsealed  flow, 
And  the  yellow-hammers  sing  ! ' 

Recovering  himself,  Fra  Girolamo  gave  orders  to  admit 
His  Magnificence  Ricciardo  Becchi. 


II 

This  man,  Scriptor  of  the  Papal  Court  of  Chancery, 
entered  Savonarola's  cell,  rustling  a  long  silk  garment  shaped 
like  the  habit  of  a  monk,  but  of  the  modish  violet  colour, 
and  with  hanging  embroidered  sleeves  lined  with  fox-skin,  his 
whole  person  emitting  a  perfume  of  musk.  The  studied 
grace  of  his  movements,  his  pleasant  and  intelligent  smile, 
his  calm  eyes,  his  dimpled  and  well-shaven  cheek,  showed 
him  a  master  of  dignified  urbanity.  He  bent  in  a  courtly 
reverence,  kissed  the  hand  of  the  Prior  of  San  Marco,  and 
asked  his  blessing ;  then  entered  upon  a  long  speech  in  Latin 
Deflowered  with  Ciceronianisms  and  resounding  sententious- 
ness.  He  began  with  what  in  the  rules  of  oratory  is  called 
the  appeal  for  good-will,  dilating  upon  the  fame  of  the 
Florentine  preacher;  then  he  gradually  approached  the 
mission  entrusted  to  him.  The  Holy  Father,  though  right- 
eously angered  by  Fra  Girolamo's  refusal  to  present  himself 
in  Rome,  nevertheless  burning  with  zeal  for  the  Church's 
good,  for  the  perfect  union  of  the  faithful  in  Christ,  and  for 
the  peace  of  the  whole  world,  declared  his  fatherly  readiness, 
in  the  event  of  Fra  Girolamo's  repentance,  to  restore  him  to 
favour. 

Savonarola  raised  his  eyes  and  said  very  quietly : — 

'  Messere,  what  think  you  ?  do  you  believe  that  the  Holy 
Father  and  our  lord  has  faith  in  Christ? ' 

Ricciardo  allowed  this  unseemly  question  to  pass  without 
reply  ;  he  continued  to  dilate  on  his  mission,  giving  the  prior 
to  understand  that  if  he  submitted  himself,  the  red  hat  of 
a  cardinal  awaited  him  in  Rome;   then,   bowing  a  second 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES— 1496  155 

time,  and  touching  Savonarola's  hand  with  his  lips,  he  added 
insinuatingly  :— 

'One  little  word,  Father  Girolamo,  one  little  word,  and  the 
red  hat  is  yours.' 

Savonarola  fixed  his  unflinching  eyes  on  the  speaker,  and 
said  slowly : — 

'And  if  I  refuse  to  submit,  Messere?  If  I  refuse  to 
hold  my  peace?  If  the  infatuated  monk  prefer  to  con- 
tinue his  barkings  as  the  faithful  watch-dog  of  the  house  of 
God?' 

Raising  his  eyebrows  in  a  faint  grimace,  Messer  Ricciardo 
looked  at  the  monk,  then  turned  his  eyes  to  his  beautiful 
almond-shaped  nails,  and  adjusted  his  priceless  rings.  Pre- 
sently he  drew  slowly  from  his  pocket,  unfolded,  and  handed 
to  the  prior  a  bull  of  excommunication,  to  which  nothing  was 
lacking  but  the  papal  seal.  In  it  Savonarola  was  called  the  son 
of  perdition,  'the  most  contemptible  of  insects  '  neauissimus 
omnipedum. 

'And  you  are  waiting  for  an  answer?'  asked  the  monk 
quietly,  when  he  had  read  the  document. 

The  Scriptor  assented  with  a  light  nod  of  his  head. 

Savonarola  rose,  and  flung  the  bull  at  the  feet  of  the 
emissary. 

'There,'  he  said,  'there  is  my  answer !  Return  to  Rome 
and  tell  him  who  has  sent  you  that  I  accept  his  challenge. 
Minister  of  Antichrist !  We  shall  see  whether  he  will  ex- 
communicate me,  or  whether  it  is  I  who  shall  drive  him  out  of 
the  pale  of  the  Church  ! ' 

The  door  of  the  cell  was  softly  opened  and  showed  the 
head  of  Fra  Domenico  who,  hearing  the  sonorous  voice,  was 
anxious  to  know  what  could  be  taking  place.  The  monks 
were  massed  round  the  entrance. 

Messer  Ricciardo,  who  had  cast  several  furtive  glances  at 
the  door,  now  said  politely : — 

'  May  I  remind  you,  Fra  Girolamo,  that  I  am  charged  only 
with  a  private  mission  ?' 

Savonarola  moved  to  the  door,  and  throwing  it  wide  he 
cried : — '  Hear  all  of  ye  ;  for  not  only  to  you  but  to  the  whole 
people  of  Florence  I  will  proclaim  the  infamous  traffic  which 
has  been  proposed  to  me,  choice  between  the  cardinal's 
purple  and  the  excommunication  of  the  Curia  Romano, !' 
Under  his  low  forehead  his  sunken  eyes  shone  like  coals; 


156  THE  FORERUNNER 

his   ill-shaped   lower  jaw,  trembling  with  wrath  and  almost 
satanic  hatred  and  pride. 

'  Yea,  the  hour  has  come  !  I  will  thunder  against  you,  all 
ye  prelates  and  cardinals  of  Rome,  even  as  once  the  holy 
fathers  thundered  against  the  pagans.  I  will  force  the  key  of 
this  unclean  house ;  the  Church  of  God,  which  you  have  slain, 
shall  hear  my  cry :  '  Lazarus,  come  forth ! "  and  shall  raise 
its  head  and  issue  from  its  tomb  !  What  need  I  your  mitres 
and  your  cardinal's  hats?  Give  me  the  red  hat  of  death; 
the  blood-stained  crown  of  martyrdom  ! ' 

III 

Among  the  monks  who  crowded  to  hear  thpse  words  of 
Savonarola  was  the  novice,  Giovanni  Boltraffio.  When  the 
company  had  dispersed,  he  too  descended  by  the  main  stair- 
case of  the  convent,  and  sat  in  his  accustomed  spot  under 
the  portico,  where  at  this  hour  reigned  solitude  and  calm. 

The  court  was  surrounded  by  the  white  monastery  walls, 
and  in  it  grew  laurels,  cypresses,  and  a  thicket  of  damask 
roses.  Report  said  that  these  roses  were  watered  by  angels. 
Fra  Girolamo  loved  to  preach  amongst  them. 

The  novice  opened  the  Epistle  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Corinth- 
ians, and  read  :  'Ye  cannot  drink  the  cup  of  the  Lord  and 
the  cup  of  devils  ;  ye  cannot  be  partakers  of  the  Lord's  table 
and  of  the  table  of  devils.' 

Then  he  rose  and  paced  the  cloister,  recalling  his  thoughts 
and  emotions  during  the  year  he  had  spent  within  the  walls 
of  San  Marco.  After  the  moral  torture  of  the  preceding 
months,  he  had  at  first  experienced  great  peace  in  this  retreat 
among  the  disciples  of  Savonarola. 

Sometimes  Father  Girolamo  would  lead  them  out  beyond 
the  confines  of  the  city.  Following  a  steep  path,  which 
seemed  to  lead  to  heaven,  they  climbed  the  heights  of 
Fiesole,  from  whence  the  City  of  Flowers,  surrounded  by 
smiling  hills,  appeared  like  some  silver  vision.  The  prior 
would  seat  himself  in  a  meadow,  enamelled  with  iris, 
tulips,  and  violets ;  the  monks  reclined  in  a  circle  round 
him,  and  talked  and  danced  and  frolicked  like  so  many 
children,  or  played  on  viols  and  citherns,  like  those  which  the 
beato  Angelico  placed  in  the  hands  of  his  angels,  circling  as 
they  sing  in  the  choir  of  heaven.     Fra  Girolamo  did  not 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES— 1496  157 

preach  nor  play  the  master,  but  talked  affectionately  and 
took  his  part  in  the  games  and  laughter.  And  Giovanni, 
looking  at  the  radiant  smile  on  his  countenance,  there  on  the 
retired  Fiesole  hill,  under  the  heaven  of  most  pure  azure, 
hearing  the  vibrating  tones  of  the  stringed  instruments,  and 
the  voices  blended  in  holy  song,  fancied  himself  an  angel  in 
the  paradise  of  God.  Sometimes  at  dawn  Savonarola  would 
walk  to  the  edge  of  the  slope,  and  look  down  on  his  Florence, 
bathed  in  the  morning  mist,  even  as  a  mother  looks  on  her 
sleeping  babe,  and  from  below  would  rise  the  first  clanging  of 
the  bells  announcing  the  beginning  of  day,  like  the  sleepy 
babble  of  a  half-awakened  child. 

And  on  summer  nights,  when  the  fireflies  moved  through 
the  embalmed  air  like  the  torches  of  unseen  angels,  and 
the  roses  exhaled  their  mystic  odour  in  the  convent-yard, 
Fra  Girolamo  would  tell  of  the  stigmata  of  St.  Francis,  of  the 
wounds,  perfumed  like  roses,  which  her  divine  love  had 
impressed  on  the  tender  body  of  St.  Catharine.  The  brethren 
sang  :— 

*  Fac  me  plagis  vulnerari, 

Fac  me  Cruce  inebriari, 

Ob  amorera  Filii.' 

And  Giovanni  would  tremble  in  the  anguished  expectation 
of  miracle — the  trembling  hope  that  rays  of  fire,  springing 
from  the  cup  of  the  Holy  Sacrament,  would  burn  his  body 
likewise  with  the  sacred  wounds  of  the  Crucified.  '  Gesity 
Gesu  mio,  amoref  he  sighed,  fainting  in  voluptuous  ecstasy. 

Once  the  prior  sent  him  on  a  mission  to  the  Villa  Carreggi, 
two  miles  from  Florence,  where  Lorenzo  dei  Medici  had  long 
sojourned,  and  at  last  had  died.  In  one  of  the  deserted 
saloons,  lit  by  a  ghostly  light  coming  through  the  chinks  of 
the  shutters,  Giovanni  saw  a  picture  of  Botticelli's,  called  '  The 
Birth  of  Venus.' 

White  as  a  water-lily,  bedewed  with  the  briny  freshness  of 
the  sea,  standing  on  a  pearly  shell,  the  goddess  floated  over 
the  waves,  veiled  in  the  abundant  gold  of  her  serpentine 
tresses,  which  she  gathered  in  her  hand.  The  fair  naked 
body  breathed  the  enticement  of  sin  ;  yet  was  there  a  strange 
pathos  in  the  pure  childlike  lips  and  the  innocent  eyes. 

Giovanni  shuddered ;  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  face  of 
the  goddess  was  not  new  to  him ;  he  looked  long  at  it,  and 
remembered  that  he  had  already  seen  that  countenance,  those 


158  THE  FORERUNNER 

ingenuous,  dewy  eyes,  those  innocent  lips  with  their  tender 
sadness  in  another  picture  by  that  same  Botticelli — a  picture 
of  the  Mother  of  God.  Inexpressible  consternation  filled  his 
soul ;  he  averted  his  eyes  and  fled  from  the  villa. 

Returning  to  Florence  by  a  narrow  lane,  he  saw  at  the 
angle  of  a  cross-way  an  ancient  Rood,  and  he  sank  on  his 
knees  and  prayed  for  the  driving  from  him  of  temptation. 
But  at  that  moment  came  the  trill  of  a  mandoline  from  the 
roses  behind  the  wall ;  a  voice  cried  out,  then  murmured  in  a 
frightened  whisper,  *  No,  no — leave  me  ! '  and  another  voice 
replied,  *  Beloved  !  Love  ! — my  love  ! '  and  then  the  man- 
doline fell,  and  a  kiss  was  heard. 

Giovanni  sprang  to  his  feet,  reiterating,  '  Gesu  I  Gesii  ! '  but 
this  time  he  dared  not  add  ' amoreP 

1  Here  also  is  she  I '  he  said ;  '  everywhere  !  in  the  face  of 
the  Madonna,  in  the  words  of  the  holy  hymns,  in  the  breath 
of  the  roses  which  crown  the  crucifix  ! ' 

And  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands  he  fled,  as  if  escaping 
from  an  unseen  persecution. 

Back  in  the  convent,  he  went  to  Savonarola  and  told  him 
all,  and  the  prior  exhorted  him  to  fight  against  the  devil  by 
fasting  and  by  prayer ;  and  when  the  novice  sought  to  explain 
that  this  torment  was  not  the  temptation  of  fleshly  lust,  but 
the  seduction  breathing  from  all  the  Jieauty  of  pagan  antiquity, 
Savonarola,  uncomprehending,  at  first  showed  astonishment, 
then  told  him  sternly  that  he  lied  in  thinking  there  could  be 
aught  in  the  pagan  gods  but  concupiscence  and  pride.  All 
beauty  was  contained  in  the  Christian  virtues.  And  Giovanni, 
not  having  found  the  looked-for  comfort,  from  that  day  forth 
was  possessed  by  the  demons  of  restlessness  and  revolt. 

Once  Boltraffio  heard  Fra  Girolamo,  discoursing  on 
painting,  insist  that  every  picture  should  have  some  moral 
utility  for  men,  exciting  them  to  the  practice  of  those  ascetic 
virtues  which  alone  are  healthful  for  the  soul.  And  he  added 
that  the  Florentines  would  do  a  work  well-pleasing  to  God 
if  they  should  destroy,  at  the  hands  of  the  executioner,  all 
those  images  which  entice  to  sin. 

Then  he  went  on  to  speak  of  knowledge : — '  That  man  is  a 
fool,'  he  said  '  who  conceives  that  by  logic  and  by  philosophy 
the  truths  of  faith  can  be  confirmed.  Does  a  strong  light 
need  the  help  of  a  weak  one?  or  the  divine  wisdom  that  of 
the  human?     Which  of  the  apostles  and  the  martyrs  studied 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES -1496  159 

philosophy  and  logic?  An  old  woman  who  can  neither  read 
nor  write,  but  who  prays  fervently  before  the  image  of  a  saint, 
is  nearer  to  the  knowledge  of  God  than  all  the  sages  and 
philosophers  of  the  world.  Neither  logic  nor  science  willf 
stead  them  in  the  day  of  judgment :  Homer  and  Virgil,  Plato 
and  Aristotle,  all  go  to  their  end  in  the  house  of  the  devil ; 
because,  like  the  sirens,  bewitching  the  ear  with  magic  songs, 
they  draw  souls  to  eternal  ruin.  Science  gives  men  stones 
for  bread,  and,  verily,  if  you  look  at  those  who  follow  the 
teaching  of  this  world,  you  will  find  in  them  that  even  their 
hearts  are  become  as  stones.' 

'  Who  knows  little,  loves  little.  Great  love  is  the  daughter 
of  great  knowledge  ! '  had  said  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

Only  now  did  Giovanni  realise  the  profundity  of  these 
words,  as  he  listened  to  the  anathema  of  the  monk  against 
knowledge  and  art,  and  remembered  the  wise  reasonings  of 
Leonardo,  the  calm  of  his  countenance,  his  cold  look,  his 
wise  and  enchanting  smile.  Not  that  he  had  forgotten  the 
poisoned  tree,  the  Ear,  the  crane  for  the  Holy  Nail,  but 
now  he  felt  that  he  had  not  fathomed  the  depth  of  his 
master's  soul,  had  not  penetrated  into  the  mysteries  of  his 
heart,  nor  untied  the  prime  knot  in  which  all  the  threads  must 
meet. 

Such  were  the  memories  upon  which  Giovanni  looked  back 
at  the  end  of  his  first  convent  year.  Deep  in  thought  he 
paced  the  darkening  cloister,  till  the  evening  had  fallen  and 
the  Ave  Maria  rang  through  the  dusk.  The  monks  wended 
to  the  chapel,  but  Giovanni  remained  outside,  reseating 
himself. 

Then  with  a  bitter  smile  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  silent 
heaven,  where  shone  the  evening  star,  the  torch  of  Lucifer, 
the  most  beautiful  of  angels,  the  bringer  of  light,  son  of 
the  morning. 

He  returned  to  his  cell  and  slept :  towards  the  dawning  he 
dreamed.  And  in  his  dream  he  was  with  Monna  Cassandra, 
astride  of  a  black  goat,  and  fleeting  through  the  morning  air, 
1  To  the  Sabbath  !  to  the  Sabbath  ! '  cried  the  witch,  turning 
to  him  her  clear  amber  eyes  ;  and  he  knew  in  her  the  goddess 
of  earthly  love,  she  with  the  heavenly  sadness  in  her  eyes — 
the  diavolessa  bianca.  The  full  moon  shone  on  her  body. 
Sweet  odours  almost  overpowered  him.  His  teeth  chattered 
with  desire  and  with  fear.     '  Amore  /  Atnore  ! '  she  cried  and 


i6o  THE  FORERUNNER 

laughed,  and  the  black  goat-skin  sank  beneath  them„  Away  1 
Away  I  they  careered. 

IV 

Giovanni  was  awakened  by  the  sun,  by  the  sound  of  bells 
and  of  childish  voices.  He  dressed  hurriedly,  and  descended 
into  the  court  where  was  a  great  crowd  of  people,  and  among 
them  children  all  dressed  in  white,  and  carrying  olive-branches 
and  small  red  crosses.  It  was  '  The  Sacred  Legion  of  the 
Child  Inquisitors,'  founded  by  Savonarola  to  watch  over  and 
reform  the  purity  of  morals  in  the  town.  Giovanni  mixed  in 
the  crowd,  and  listened  to  their  talk. 

Then  a  wave  passed  over  the  ranks  of  the  sacred  troop ; 
innumerable  small  hands  waved  the  olive-branches  and  the 
red  crosses  above  their  heads,  acclaiming  Savonarola,  who 
was  entering,  and  a  chorus  of  silver  voices  intoned  a  psalm 
in  his  honour  : — 

'  Lumen  ad  revelationem gentium  et  gloriam plebis  Israel.' 

The  children  made  a  circle  round  the  Prior,  covering  him 
with  a  rain  of  violets  and  anemones,  and  they  knelt  before 
him,  kissing  his  feet.  Illumined  by  a  ray  of  the  sun,  silently, 
with  a  tender  smile,  the  worn-faced  Savonarola  blessed  them. 

1  Long  live  Christ,  King  of  Florence  !  Hallelujah  to  Christ, 
the  King  of  Florence.  Hail  Mary,  Blessed  Virgin,  and  our 
Queen  ! '  shouted  the  young  voices. 

The  captains  gave  the  order  to  march,  drums  beat,  flags 
fluttered,  and  the  sacred  troop  moved  off.  For  in  the  Piazza 
della  Signoria  was  prepared  the  pyre  for  the  burning  of  the 
vanities,  and  the  children  were  once  more  to  make  the 
circuit  of  the  city  to  collect  'vanities  and  things  under 
anathema.' 


When  the  court  was  clear,  Giovanni  saw  Messer  Cipriano 
Buonaccorsi,  Master  of  the  noble  Guild  of  the  Calimala, 
the  lover  of  pagan  antiquities,  on  whose  property  by  the  Hill 
of  the  Mill  the  marble  figure  of  the  goddess  of  Love  had  been 
found.  They  greeted  each  other  warmly,  and  spoke  for  some 
time.  From  Messer  Cipriano  Giovanni  learned  that  Leonardo 
had  come  from  Milan,  charged  by  the  duke  to  purchase  such 
works  of  art  as  could  escape  the  Legion  of  Children.     Giorgio 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES— 1496  161 

Merula  was  with  the  painter.  Presently  Messer  Cipriano 
asked  Giovanni  to  conduct  him  to  Savonarola.  The  master 
of  the  Calimala  entered  Fra  Girolamo's  cell,  and  Giovanni 
waiting  outside  heard  their  talk.  Messer  Cipriano  offered 
twenty-two  thousand  gold  florins  if  he  might  buy  all  the 
books,  the  pictures,  the  statues,  and  other  treasures  which 
were  ordained  for  the  burning.  Savonarola  refused.  Messer 
Cipriano  increased  his  offer  by  eight  thousand  florins.  To 
this  the  Monk  deigned  no  reply;  only  his  stern  and  rigid 
face  became  yet  sterner  and  more  rigid.  Buonaccorsi's 
toothless  mouth  quivered.  He  wrapped  his  fox-skin  cloak 
round  his  shivering  knees ;  he  sighed  heavily,  and  closing  his 
myopic  eyes,  he  said  in  his  quiet  voice :  '  Well,  Father 
Girolamo,  I  will  ruin  myself.  I  will  give  you  all  I  possess: 
forty  thousand  florins.' 

Savonarola  grimly  raised  his  head.  '  And  what  were  your 
profit/  he  asked,  'if  you  ruined  yourself?' 

'I  was  born  in  this  city,'  replied  Messer  Cipriano.  ' I  love 
my  land;  and  for  no  condition  in  the  world  can  I  endure  that 
we,  like  the  barbarian  hordes,  should  destroy  the  master- 
pieces of  wisdom  and  of  art/ 

'Would  that  thou  didst  love  thy  heavenly  country  as  thou 
lovest  thine  earthly  one,  my  son ! '  exclaimed  the  Monk, 
turning  on  the  old  man  a  look  full  of  admiration;  'but 
be  consoled,  only  things  meet  for  burning  shall  be  burned. 
What  induces  to  wickedness  and  vice  cannot  include  any- 
thing of  beauty,  as,  indeed,  your  same  wise  ancients  have 
said.' 

'  Alas,  father ! '  returned  the  merchant,  eagerly,  '  are  you 
certain  that  babes  can  distinguish  so  precisely  between  the 
evil  and  the  good?' 

*  Truth  and  innocency  is  in  the  mouth  of  babes.  "Except 
ye  become  as  children  ye  cannot  enter  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven."  Is  it  not  written :  "  I  will  destroy  the  wisdom  of 
the  wise,  and  will  bring  to  nothing  the  understanding  of  the 
prudent"?  Messere,  I  pray  day  and  night  that  God  may 
enlighten  my  babes,  so  that  by  His  Holy  Spirit  their  minds 
may  be  opened  to  discover  all  the  vanities  of  science  and 
of  art.' 

1 1  beseech  you  to  consider — perhaps  even  a  part — — ' 

'You  are  wasting  your  breath,  messere.     My  decision 
unalterable.' 


162  THE  FORERUNNER 

Again  Messer  Cipriano's  old  lips  moved,  but  Savonarola 
heard  only  one  word — '  Madness  ! ' 

'  Madness?'  he  echoed,  his  eyes  flashing ;  'and  the  golden 
calf  of  the  Borgias  offered  to  the  pope  in  his  sacrilegious 
festivals — is  that  not  madness  ?  And  the  elevation  of  the  Holy 
Nail,  to  the  glory  of  God,  by  a  diabolical  machine  at  the 
command  of  an  impious  assassin  and  usurper — is  that  not 
madness?  You  dance  madly  round  the  golden  calf  in 
honour  of  your  God,  which  is  Mammon ;  let  us,  then,  who 
are  poor  in  spirit,  be  mad  in  honour  of  our  God,  who  is 
Christ  Jesus  the  Crucified.  You  bemock  the  monks  who  on 
the  piazza  dance  around  the  cross.  Wait !  There  are  other 
spectacles  which  wait  for  you.  What  will  you  wise  men  say 
when  I  lead  not  only  the  monks,  but  the  whole  people  of 
Florence,  adults  as  well  as  children,  men  and  women,  to 
dance  around  the  Cross-Tree  of  Salvation,  as  of  old  David 
danced  before  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  to  the  glory  of  the 
Most  High!' 

VI 

Leaving  the  prior's  cell,  Giovanni  Boltraffio  turned  his 
steps  towards  the  Piazza  della  Signoria.  In  Via  Larga  he 
met  the  sacred  troop.  The  children  had  stopped  a  palan- 
quin carried  by  black  slaves,  in  which  reclined  a  woman 
gorgeously  attired.  A  lapdog  slept  on  her  knee,  a  parrot 
and  a  monkey  were  on  perches  by  her  side,  the  litter  was 
followed  by  servants  and  by  guards.  She  was  a  courtesan, 
Lena  Griffi,  not  long  come  from  Venice,  one  of  those  whom 
the  most  Serene  Republic  called  '  meretrix  honesta?  or  play- 
fully { Mammola'  (little  dear);  and  whose  name  in  the  placard, 
drawn  up  for  the  convenience  of  travellers,  was  set  down 
in  large  characters  and  in  a  place  of  honour  at  the  top  of  the 
list. 

Lolling  on  her  cushions  like  Cleopatra,  or  a  Queen  of 
Sheba,  Lena  was  reading  a  love-missive  from  a  youthful 
bishop.     Its  postscript  was  a  song  ending  thus : — 

'  Listening  to  thy  voice  I  rise 
From  this  globe  towards  the  skies, 
Plato's  Sphere  of  Ecstasies. ' 

The  courtesan  was  meditating  on  a  return  sonnet,  for  she 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES— 1496  163 

was  an  accomplished  versifier,  and  used  to  say  that  had  it 
depended  on  herself,  she  would  gladly  have  passed  her  whole 
existence  in  the  Accademia  degli  vomini  uirtuosi — in  the 
Academy  of  the  Virtuous. 

The  sacred  troop  of  children  encircled  the  litter.  Dolfo, 
the  leader  of  one  of  the  bands,  advanced  raising  his  red  cross, 
and  cried  :  '  In  the  name  of  Jesus,  the  King  of  Florence,  and 
of  the  Blessed  Mary  our  Queen,  we  bid  you  strip  off  these 
sinful  ornaments,  these  vanities  and  anathemata.  And  if  you 
refuse,  may  you  fall  under  the  malediction  of  God  ! ' 

The  dog  suddenly  awakened  began  to  bark,  the  monkey 
chattered,  the  parrot,  flapping  its  wings,  screamed  out  a  verse 
it  had  learned  from  its  mistress  : — 

Amor  che  a  nullo  amato  amar  perdona  ! ' 

Lena  was  about  to  bid  her  attendants  rid  her  of  the  crowd 
when  her  eyes  fell  on  Dolfo,  and  she  beckoned  to  him. 

The  boy  came,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

1  Away  with  these  ornaments ! '  shouted  the  children. 
*  Away  with  the  vanities  and  the  anathemata.' 

{Ah,  you  handsome  boy!'  said  the  courtesan  softly,  dis- 
regarding the  cries  of  the  crowd.  'Mark  you,  my  little 
Adonis,  I  would  willingly  give  you  all  my  poor  toys,  but  the 
matter  is  they  are  not  mine  own  ! ' 

Dolfo  raised  his  eyes;  and  Lena,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible 
smile,  nodded  as  if  confirming  his  secret  thoughts,  then 
added  caressingly,  in  her  soft  Venetian  accent :  '  In  the 
Vicolo  de'  Bottai,  near  the  Santa  Trinita,  ask  for  Lena,  the 
lady  from  Venice.     I  '11  be  expecting  you.' 

Dolfo  looked  round  and  saw  that  his  followers  had  become 
involved  with  a  party  of  Savonarola's  enemies  (called  the 
Arrabbiati,  the  Enraged),  and  had  forgotten  the  courtesan. 
It  was  his  duty  to  bid  them  fall  upon  her,  but  suddenly  he 
felt  himself  vanquished,  and  flushed  and  hung  his  head. 

Lena  laughed,  showing  her  white  teeth ;  and  behind  the 
sumptuous  Cleopatra  and  Queen  of  Sheba  there  shone  out 
the  Venetian  '  Mammola,'  the  saucy  street-girl,  mischievous 
and  naughty. 

The  slaves  lifted  the  litter  and  she  pursued  her  way 
unmolested,  spaniel  on  lap;  the  parrot  settled  down  on 
his  perch;  only  the   monkey  still  grimaced,  and  tried   to 


i64  THE  FORERUNNER 

snatch  the  pencil  with  which  the  courtesan   was  beginning 
verses  to  the  bishop : — 

'  My  love  is  purer  than  a  seraph's  sigh.     .     .     .' 

Dolfo,  meantime,  preceding  his  company,  but  without  his 
former  braggadocio,  mounted  the  stair  of  the  Palazzo  dei 
Medici. 

VII 

In  the  dark,  silent,  and  spacious  halls  of  the  Medicean 
palace,  where  all  breathed  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the  past, 
the  children  became  awestruck.  But  when  the  shutters 
had  been  flung  open,  the  trumpets  had  blared,  and  the 
drums  beat,  then  the  youthful  inquisitors  scattered  them- 
selves through  the  rooms,  shouting  and  laughing,  and  singing 
hymns,  and  executing  the  judgment  of  God  on  the  sins  of 
learning  and  art,  gleefully  prying  into  vanities  by  the  guidance 
of  the  Holy  Spirit. 

Giovanni  watched  them  at  work,  and  noted  some  who, 
with  frowning  foreheads,  hands  decently  folded,  and  the 
gravity  of  judges,  paced  among  the  statues  of  the  philosophers 
and  heroes  of  pagan  antiquity.  *  Pythagoras,  Anaximenes, 
Heraclitus,  Plato,  Marcus  Aurelius,  Epictetus,'  read  one  of 
the  boys  from  the  Latin  inscriptions  on  the  marble  bases. 

'Epictetus?'  said  Federici,  with  the  tone  of  a  profound 
connoisseur,  '  that  is  the  particular  heretic  who  permitted  all 
pleasures  and  denied  the  existence  of  God.  He  merits 
burning ;  'tis  pity  he  is  marble.* 

'Never  mind,'  cried  the  cross-eyed  Pippo,  'we  '11  have  him 
in  to  the  feast.' 

1  Nay,'  interposed  Giovanni ;  'you  are  confounding  Epictetus 
with  Epicurus/ 

He  was  too  late ;  down  came  Pippo's  hammer  so  clean  on 
the  philosopher's  nose  that  the  boys  yelled  in  admiration. 

1  Epictetus  or  Epicurus,  it 's  all  one !  If  it  isn't  the  broth, 
it's  the  sippets  of  bread  I  They  shall  all  go  to  the  house  of 
the  devil,'  they  cried,  quoting  Fra  Girolamo. 

However,  contention  arose  before  a  picture  of  Botticelli's. 
Dolfo  declared  it  was  the  naked  Bacchus  pierced  by  the 
shafts  of  love,  but  Federici,  whose  eye  for  'anathemata* 
rivalled  Dolfo's,  examined  the  picture  attentively  and  pro- 
nounced  it  a  portrait  of  Stephen  the  proto-martyr. 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES— 1496  165 

The  children  stood  round  in  perplexity,  for  the  attire  and 
ihe  expression  of  the  figure  in  nowise  suggested  a  saint 

*  Don't  you  believe  him!'  cried  Dolfo;  "tis  Bacchus,  the 
abominable  Bacchus !' 

'You  blasphemer!'  shouted  Federici,  raising  his  crucifix 
or  weapon,  and  the  two  boys  fell  upon  each  other  with  such 
good-will  that  their  followers  could  hardly  separate  them. 
The  picture  was  left  for  future  consideration.  * 

Standing  in  wondering  groups,  the  children  rummaged 
amongst  the  properties  of  old  carnivals — amongst  the  horrid 
masks  of  satyrs,  grapes  for  bacchantes,  bows,  amongst 
quivers,  and  wings  of  Eros,  the  wands  of  Hermes,  the  tridents 
of  Poseidon.  Finally,  drawing  them  forth  amid  shouts  of 
laughter,  they  lighted  on  the  wooden,  gilded,  cobwebbed 
thunderbolt  of  Jupiter  Tonans,  and  the  moth-eaten  body  of 
the  Olympian  eagle,  with  moulted  tail,  and  wires  and  nails 
protruding  from  his  perforated  crop.  A  rat  jumped  out  from 
the  dusty  golden  wig  once  worn  by  Aphrodite,  girls  screamed, 
jumped  on  the  couches  and  gathered  up  their  petticoats.  The 
shadows  of  terrified  bats  beating  against  the  ceiling  seemed 
the  wings  of  unclean  spirits,  and  a  chill  of  horror  and  repul- 
sion settled  on  the  children  as  they  touched  this  heathen 
lumber,  this  sepulchral  dust  of  deities. 

Dolfo  running  up  announced  that  there  was  yet  another 
room,  its  door  guarded  by  a  little,  bald,  furious,  red-nosed, 
detestable  man,  who  was  hurling  blasphemy  and  curses,  and 
would  permit  no  one  to  pass.  The  troop  filed  off  to  recon- 
noitre ;  and  Giovanni,  following  them,  found  in  the  janitor  his 
friend  the  bibliophile,  Messer  Giorgio  Merula. 

Dolfo  gave  the  signal  for  attack;  Messer  Giorgio  stood 
before  the  door  preparing  to  defend  it  with  his  body.  The 
children  fell  upon  him,  rolled  him  over,  beat  him  with  their 
crosses,  searched  his  pockets  till  they  had  found  the  key,  and 
opened  the  door.  It  was  a  small  room  with  a  library  of 
precious  books. 

'Here,  here!'  suggested  Merula,  cunningly,  'the  books 
you  seek  are  in  this  corner.  You  needn't  waste  your  time 
over  the  top  shelves.     There  's  nothing  there.' 

But  the  inquisitors  heeded  him  not.  All  that  came  to 
hand  they  piled  in  a  vast  heap,  especially  the  books  in 
rich  bindings.  Then  they  opened  the  windows  and  flung 
the   fat   folios   straight    into    the    street,   where   carts   were 


166  THE  FORERUNNER 

being  loaded  with  'vanities.'  Tibullus,  Horace,  Ovid 
Apuleius,  Aristophanes,  rare  copies,  unique  editions  flew 
through  the  air  before  Merula's  very  eyes.  He  rescued  one 
small  volume  and  hid  it  in  his  bosom.  It  was  the  history  of 
Marcellinus,  containing  the  life  of  Julian  the  Apostate. 
Seeing  on  the  floor  a  delicately-illuminated  manuscript 
of  the  tragedies  of  Sophocles,  he  snatched  it  up  and  made 
piteous  supplication : — 

*  Children,  dear  children !  spare  Sophocles.  He  is  the 
most  innocent  of  poets.     Let  him  alone  !     Let  him  alone  ! ' 

And  he  pressed  the  precious  leaves  convulsively  to  his 
breast,  but  finding  them  tear  beneath  his  too  loving  hands  he 
burst  into  sobs  and  groans,  dropped  his  treasure,  and  cried 
in  impotent  fury  : — 

*  Know,  ye  sons  of  dogs,  that  one  line  of  this  inestimable 
Sophocles  is  worth  all  the  prophecies  put  together  of  your 
madman,  Fra  Girolamo.' 

*01d  man,  if  you  don't  want  to  be  taken  by  the  heels  and 
thrown  after  your  pagan  poets,  you  '11  hold  your  tongue ! ' 
cried  the  children,  dragging  him  from  the  library. 

Then  leaving  the  palace,  they  passed  by  Santa  Maria  del 
Fiore,  and  marched  to  the  Piazza  della  Signoria. 

VIII 

In  front  of  the  dark  and  slender  tower  of  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio  the  pyre  stood  ready.  It  was  thirty  cubits  in  height, 
one  hundred  and  twenty  in  circumference;  an  octagonal 
pyramid  with  at  least  fifteen  steps.  On  the  lowest  were 
the  comic  masks,  dresses,  wigs,  and  other  carnival  properties ; 
on  the  next  three,  profane  books  from  Anacreon  and  Ovid  to 
the  Decameron^  and  the  MorganU  Maggiort  of  Messer  Luigi 
Pulci.  Above  the  books  were  the  instruments  of  female 
beauty — washes,  essences,  mirrors,  puffs,  curling-tongs,  hair- 
pins, nail-nippers.  Still  higher  were  lutes  and  mandolines, 
cards,  chessmen,  balls,  dice — all  the  games  by  means  of  which 
men  serve  the  devil.  Then  came  drawings,  voluptuous 
pictures,  portraits  of  light  women ;  lastly,  on  the  summit  of 
the  pyramid,  the  gods,  heroes  and  sages  of  pagan  antiquity, 
made  of  wood  and  of  coloured  wax.  Above  the  pile,  towering 
higher  than  anything  else,  the  figure  of  Satan  was  enthroned, 
the  lord  of  all  '  vanities  and  things  accursed,'  a  monstrous 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES— 1496  167 

puppet,  filled  with  gunpowder  and  sulphur,  with  goat's  legs 
and  a  hairy  skin,  like  Pan,  the  ancient  god  of  the  woods. 

It  was  evening  :  the  air  was  cold,  but  serene  and  clear,  and 

one  by  one  the  stars  were  beginning  their  nightly  shining. 

The  crowd  in  the  piazza  surged  and  swayed,  and  pious  mur- 

murings  filled  the  air.     Hymns  went  up  from  Savonarola's 

followers — Laudi  spirituali — which  retaining  the  rhymes,  the 

metre,  and   the  air   of  carnival  songs,  had  been  radically 

changed  in  words  and  sense.      Giovanni  listened,  and  the 

incongruity  between  the  lively  music  and  the  gloomy  words 

resounded  in  his  ears  like  some  barbarous  funeral  chant. 

1  Hope  with  Faith  and  Love  agrees, 

Take  three  ounces  each  of  these  ; 

Two  of  tears,  and  mix  them  well 

On  the  fire  of  Fear. 
Let  them  boil  for  minutes  three, 
Spice  them  with  Humility, 
Adding  Grief  to  make  the  spell 

Of  this  madness  clear  ; 
Lo  !  my  soul,  I  offer  thee 
A  most  sov'ran  remedy, 
Worthy  cure  for  every  ill, 
Called  by  man  a  madness  still.' 
A  man  on  crutches,  paralysed  but  not  old,  his  face  quivering 
like  the  wing  of  a  wounded  bird,  approached  Fra  Domenico 
Buonvicino  and  handed  him  a  parcel. 

4  What  is  it,'  asked  the  friar  ;  ■  more  drawings  ? ' 

*  A  matter  of  anatomy.  Yesterday  I  forgot  to  hand  it  over, 
but  to-night  a  voice  reproved  me  :  "  Sandro,"  it  said,  "you  have 
still  some  '  vanities  and  anathemata '  in  the  loft  above  your 
shop."  So  I  got  up  and  hunted  for  these  drawings  of  nude 
bodies.' 

The  monk  took  the  parcel  with  a  good-natured  smile. 

1  We  shall  light  a  famous  fire,  Ser  Filippepi ! '  he  said. 

The  paralytic  looked  at  the  pyramid  and  heaved  a  profound 
sigh. 

1  Lord  !  Lord  !  have  mercy  on  us  miserable  sinners  !  And 
to  think  that  but  for  Fra  Girolamo  we  should  be  still  in  our 
sins  !   And  even  now,  who  knows  if  we  shall  save  our  souls?' 

He  crossed  himself  and  murmured  prayers,  fingering  his 
rosary. 

1  Who  is  that  ? '  Giovanni  asked  of  Fra  Domenico. 

*  Sandro  Botticelli,'  was  the  answer,  '  son  of  Ser  Mariano 
Filippepi,  the  tanner.' 


1 68  THE  FORERUNNER 


IX 


When  at  last  the  curtain  of  night  had  fallen  upon  Florence, 
a  whisper  ran  through  the  crowd. 

'  They  come !     They  come ! ' 

Slowly,  silently,  without  torches,  without  hymns,  the  pro- 
cession advanced.  Before  the  white-robed  troop  of  the  child 
inquisitors  was  borne  the  waxen  image  of  the  child  Jesus, 
pointing  with  one  hand  to  his  crown  of  thorns,  with  the  other 
blessing  the  people.  After  the  children  came  monks,  the 
clergy  of  the  whole  town,  the  gonfalonieri,  the  magnificent 
gentlemen  of  the  Council  of  Eighty;  the  cathedral  canons, 
the  doctors  of  theology,  the  magistrates,  the  cavaliers,  the 
guards  of  the  Bargello,  the  heralds  and  trumpeters.  Upon 
reaching  the  piazza  the  procession  stood  still,  and  a  deathly 
silence  came  over  the  multitude,  such  as  precedes  an  execu- 
tion. Then  Savonarola  mounted  the  Ringhiera,  a  stone  plat- 
form before  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  lifted  the  crucifix,  and 
commanded  in  sonorous  tones  : — 

*  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost, 
kindle  the  flame ! ' 

Four  monks  approached  the  pyre  with  torches,  and 
immediately  fire  broke  out  at  the  four  opposing  corners. 
The  flames  crackled,  and  a  smoke  at  first  grey,  then  blackening, 
rose  in  wreaths  to  heaven.  Trumpets  sounded,  the  monks 
chanted  a  canticle  in  honour  of  the  Lord,  and  the  children 
sang  in  chorus  : — 

'  Lumen  ad  revelationem  gentium  et  gloriam  plebis  Israel.' 

The  great  bell  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  rolled  a  solemn  and 
majestic  sound  upon  the  air,  and  was  answered  from  all  the 
belfries  of  the  town.  The  fire  rose  ever  fiercer  and  more 
brilliant ;  and  the  delicate  parchment  leaves  of  the  old  books 
curled  up  and  perished.  From  the  lowest  step  a  bunch  of 
false  hair  rose  flaming  and  floated  away,  amid  the  jeers  and 
laughter  of  the  crowd.  Among  the  people  were  some  who 
prayed,  some  who  wept ;  others  screamed  and  danced,  and 
waved  their  arms  and  kerchiefs  and  caps ;  others  prophesied. 

*  Sing,  brothers,  sing  unto  the  Lord  a  new  song  !'  shouted 
a  limping  shoemaker  with  wild  eyes :  '  All  the  world  is 
crumbling!  burning,  burning  to  a  horrible  destruction, 
even  as  these  vanities  in  the  purifying  fire — all — all — all! — 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES— 1496  169 

Church,  laws,  governments,  powers,  arts,  learning — one  stone 
shall  not  be  left  upon  another  ! — there  shall  be  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  ;  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  our 
eyes,  and  there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow  nor 
weeping  nor  sickness  !     O  Lord  Jesus,  come  !  come  ! ' 

A  young  woman,  with  a  thin  and  suffering  face,  pregnant, 
no  doubt  the  wife  of  some  poverty-stricken  artisan,  fell  on 
her  knees,  spreading  her  hands  towards  the  flame,  as  if  in 
very  truth  she  saw  in  it  a  vision  of  the  Christ  Himself;  then 
starting  up  and  calling  like  one  possessed,  she  cried : — 

1  My  Jesus  !  my  Jesus  !     Come,  Lord  Jesus  !     Come  ! ' 

X 

Among  the  objects  burning  at  the  stake  Giovanni  could 
not  take  his  eyes  off  a  picture  lighted  up  but  not  yet  touched 
by  the  flame.  It  was  by  Leonardo :  a  shining  white  Leda, 
lying  on  the  waves  of  a  mountain-girdled  lake,  among  the 
low-toned  reflections  of  twilight.  A  great  swan  spread  his 
wings  over  her,  bending  his  long  neck,  and  filling  the  sky  and 
the  earth  with  his  triumphant  hymn  of  love,  while  Leda 
watched  her  twin  sons.  Giovanni  stared  at  the  advance  of 
the  flame,  his  heart  beating  high  in  nervous  horror. 

Just  then  the  monks  elevated  a  sombre  cross  in  the  centre 
of  the  square,  and  in  honour  of  the  Trinity  made  them- 
selves into  three  circles,  joining  their  hands;  then  testifying 
to  the  spiritual  joy  of  the  faithful,  they  danced,  first  slowly, 
then  faster  and  faster,  till  at  last  they  were  as  a  mighty 
whirlwind,  and  they  sang  the  while  : — 

*  Ognun  gridi  coiri  to  grido  I    Sempre  pazzo,  pazzo,  pazzo  I ' 

'  Each  and  all  with  me  cry  out, 
Ever  madly,  madly  shout ! 

All  that  wise  men  follow  after 
Jesu's  fools  delight  in  spurning, 

Riches,  honour,  feasting,  laughter, 
Pomp  and  pleasure,  golden  earning — 
Unto  those  things  fondly  turning 
That  to  wisdom  hateful  be  : 
Grief,  and  pain,  and  penury. 
Christians  still  may  boast  of  madness — 
Never  was  there  greater  gladness, 

More  delightsome  solace  never 

Than  for  love  of  Jesu  ever 
Thus  to  rage  in  holy  madness.'  * 

1  Hieronymo  Benivieni. 


170  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  heads  of  the  spectators  reeled,  and  their  hands 
and  feet  were  set  in  motion ;  suddenly  children,  men, 
feeble  women  joined  in  the  frantic  dance.  One  old  and 
unwieldy  monk,  like  an  aged  faun,  tripped,  fell,  and  was 
hurt  so  that  the  blood  flowed;  he  was  flung  aside,  barely 
escaping  trampling,  and  the  dance  rolled  on.  The  fire's 
crimson  and  flickering  glow  lighted  convulsed  faces :  a  vast 
shadow  was  thrown  by  the  crucifix,  the  moveless  centre  of 
the  whirling  circles. 

'  If  of  wit  my  mind  doth  show, 

Jesu,  in  thy  courtesie, 
Rid  it  thence  and  let  me  know 

Ever  only  phrenesie ! 

For  of  all  philosophic, 
Wisdom,  prudence,  and  the  rest, 
Loathing  such  haih  me  possessed 
That  I  would  only  ask  for  madness. 

Jesu  mine,  it  doth  appear 
Wisdom  all  and  man's  contriving 

In  God's  sight  is  folly  mere  ; 
All  things  else  but  vainest  striving, 
Saving  Thee,  Thou  fount  reviving, 
Whence  flow  out  such  waters  rare, 
That  who  slakes  his  thirst  once  there 
For  love  of  Thee  is  seized  with  madness.' 

At  last  the  creeping  flame  had  reached  the  Leda,  with  its 
scarlet  tongue  had  licked  the  pure  body,  flushed  as  if  living,  and 
grown  momentarily  yet  more  mystic  and  exquisite.  Giovanni 
gazed,  shuddering  and  turning  pale,  and  for  him  Leda  smiled 
her  last  smile ;  then  dissolving  in  the  fire,  like  a  cloud  in  the 
sunrise,  she  was  lost  for  ever. 

And  now  the  flame  had  attained  the  huge  devil  on  the  apex 
of  the  pyramid :  its  paunch,  filled  with  powder,  burst  with  a 
tremendous  crash.  A  pillar  of  fire  rose  to  the  sky.  The 
monster  tottered  on  his  blazing  throne,  bowed,  fell,  and  was 
scattered  in  a  powder  of  dying  embers. 

Drums  and  trumpets  sounded.  All  the  bells  pealed,  the 
crowd  raised  a  roar  of  triumph,  as  though  Satan  himself 
had  perished  in  the  flames  of  the  holy  pile,  together  with  all 
the  falsehood,  pain  and  sins  of  the  whole  earth.  Giovanni 
clapped  his  hands  to  his  temples  and  would  have  fled.  But 
a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder ;  he  turned  and  looked : 
beside  him  stood  Leonardo,  with  his  quiet  untroubled  face. 


THE  BONFIRE  OF  VANITIES— 1496  171 

The  Master  took  him  by  the  hand  and  drew  him  forth  from 
the  crowd. 

XI 

They  moved  from  the  square,  pervaded  by  clouds  of 
stifling  smoke,  and,  lit  up  by  the  glow  of  the  dying  bonfire, 
by  an  obscure  lane  they  took  their  way  to  the  banks  of 
the  Arno.  Here  all  breathed  quietness  and  calm  :  the  steam 
glided  by,  gently  murmuring :  the  stars  scintillated,  coldly 
brilliant,  and  the  moon  bathed  the  hills  in  a  flood  of  silver 
glory. 

1  Giovanni,'  said  Leonardo,  '  why  did  you  forsake  me  ? ' 

The  disciple  raised  his  eyes  and  tried  to  speak ;  but  his 
voice  died  in  his  throat,  his  lip  trembled,  and  he  burst  into 
tears. 

'  Master — forgive  me ! ' 

I  You  have  done  me  no  wrong.' 

I I  knew  not  what  I  did,'  murmured  Boltrafflo.  How,  O 
God  !  how  could  I  have  left  you  ? ' 

He  would  have  told  his  sufferings,  his  madness,  the  anguish 
of  his  terrible  doubts.  But  as  when  at  Milan  he  had  stood 
before  the  Colossus  of  Francesco  Sforza,  he  felt  that  Leonardo 
would  have  no  comprehension ;  and  in  hopeless  entreaty  he 
looked  into  his  eyes — eyes  clear,  calm,  and  alien  as  the  stars. 

As  if  divining  the  conflict  in  his  soul,  the  Master  did  not 
question  him  ;  he  smiled  with  infinite  kindness,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  the  young  head  he  said  : — 

1  God  help  you,  my  poor  boy :  you  know  I  have  ever  loved 
you  as  my  favourite  son  !  Will  you  come  back  to  me  ?  I 
will  receive  you  with  joy.' 

Then,  scarce  audibly,  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  he  added : — 

'The  deeper  the  sensitiveness,  the  greater  the  grief.  A 
martyr  among  the  martyrs  ! ' 

From  afar  came  the  clash  of  the  bells,  the  scream  of  the 
chant,  the  cry  of  the  frenzied  mob.  But  Master  and  pupil 
were  happy. 


BOOK    VIII 

THE   AGE   OF   GOLD — I496-I497 

■  Tornerh  Veta  del?  oro 
Cuntiam  tutti:  "  Viva  il  Moro!'" 

Bellincioni. 

[The  Age  of  Gold  shall  brighten  as  of  yore, 
And  all  exulting  sing,  '  Long  live  the  Moor  ! '] 


Beatrice  d'Este,  Duchess  of  Milan,  sat  in  her  boudoir 
writing  a  letter  to  her  sister  Isabella,  wife  of  the  Marchese 
Francesco  Gonzaga,  lord  of  Mantua : — 

*  Most  excellent  madonna  and  well-beloved  Sister,  I  and  il 
Signor  Ludovico,  my  spouse,  desire  your  good  health,  and 
that  of  il  Signor  Francesco,  your  illustrious  consort. 

1  In  obedience  to  your  desire  I  send  you  the  portrait  of 
Massimiliano,  my  Son,  only  I  pray  you  not  to  conceive  of  him 
as  of  the  smallness  here  indicated.  I  would  send  you  the 
precise  measurements  of  how  tall  he  is,  but  that  I  am  afraid, 
for  the  nurse  tells  me  such  measurement  would  impede  his 
growth.  He  grows  amazingly.  If  I  see  him  not  for  a  couple 
of  days,  I  find  him  so  greatly  enlarged  that  I  jump  for  joy. 

*  Here  at  court  we  have  a  great  grief:  the  little  Fool  Nannino 
hath  died.  You,  my  sister,  knew  him  and  loved  him  well ; 
you  will  therefore  comprehend  that  while  I  might  have 
replaced  any  other  loss,  Nature  herself  could  not  fill  the  void 
left  by  Nannino,  since  in  this  Being,  formed  expressly  for  the 
delight  of  princes,  she  had  united  the  perfection  of  imbecility 
with  the  most  entrancing  hideousness.  Bellincioni  has  com- 
posed a  most  elegant  Elegy,  declaring  that  if  Nannino  is 
in  Heaven  then  all  paradise  must  laugh,  if  he  is  in  hell 

172 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  173 

even  Cerberus  grinneth.  We  have  buried  him,  with  many 
tears,  in  our  family  tomb  in  St.  Maria  dtlle  Grazie,  beside  my 
favourite  falcon,  and  the  memorable  bitch  Puttina.  Death 
shall  not  wholly  separate  me  from  so  delightful  a  possession. 
I  have  wept  for  two  entire  nights,  and  Ludovico,  my  lord, 
in  the  hope  to  console  me,  has  promised  me  for  a  Christmas 
gift  a  magnificent  silver  bedside  Seat,  ornamented  with  a  relief 
of  the  fight  between  the  Centaurs  and  the  Lapithae.  Its  interior 
will  be  of  pure  gold,  very  massive,  and  it  hath  a  Baldachin 
of  velvet,  embroidered  with  our  ducal  arms.  A  similar 
seat  has  no  other  prince,  neither  the  Pope,  nor  the  Emperor, 
nor  the  grand  Turk.  It  will  excel  in  beauty  that  one 
famed  by  Martial  in  his  epigram.  My  lord,  Ludovico, 
had  wished  Leonardo  da  Vinci  to  contrive  a  musical-organ 
in  its  Interior,  but  he  hath  excused  himself  on  some 
flimsy  pretext,  such  as  the  finishing  of  his  Colossus,  or  his 
Cenacolo.  You  prayed  me,  beloved  Sister,  to  lend  you  this 
Painter  for  a  time.  With  pleasure  would  I  accede  to  your 
request,  and  verily  not  lend  but  give  him  to  you  for  ever ;  but 
my  lord,  Ludovico,  for  what  reason  I  cannot  say,  is  exceeding 
well-disposed  toward  this  man,  and  would  not  consent  to  his 
removal  for  all  the  gold  in  the  world.  Be  not  disappointed 
overmuch,  for  verily  this  Leonardo  is  occupied  to  such  a 
degree  with  alchemy,  mechanics,  Magic,  and  other  such  like 
follies,  that  he  scarce  attends  to  his  painting;  secondly, 
he  executes  all  commissions  with  a  slowness  that  would  lose 
an  Angel  his  patience ;  thirdly,  he  is  an  infidel. 

*  Of  late  we  have  had  a  wolf-hunt.  They  do  not  permit 
me  to  mount  on  horseback,  for  I  am  now  advanced  in  my 
fifth  month ;  but  I  watched  the  hunt  from  the  high  platform 
of  a  conveyance  made  expressly  for  me,  in  form  like  a  pulpit. 
I  assure  you  that  in  this  box  I  was  rather  tortured  than 
diverted.  When  the  Wolf  made  his  escape  into  the  forest 
I  wept  with  rage.  Had  I  been  upon  my  horse  I  swear  he 
should  not  thus  have  got  away,  though  I  had  broken  my 
collar-bone. 

'  My  little  sister,  do  you  recall  how  we  used  to  leap  our 
horses?  And  how  Penthesilea  fell  in  the  Ditch  and  almost 
destroyed  herself?  And  the  boar-hunt  at  Cusnago?  And 
the  tennis?  and  the  angling  ?     What  fine  times  were  those  ! 

1  Here  we  amuse  ourselves  as  best  we  can.  We  play  at 
cards,  and  we  skate,  which  is  a  most  pleasing  diversion,  intro- 


174  THE  FORERUNNER 

duced  among  us  by  a  Flemish  gentleman,  for  the  winter  is 
very  severe,  and  not  only  the  lakes  but  likewise  the  rivers 
are*  completely  frozen.  In  the  park  Leonardo  hath  built 
out  of  snow  a  most  elegant  Leda  embraced  by  the  swan. 
Pity  'tis  that  in  the  spring  it  will  melt ! 

'And  you,  delightful  sister,  how  fare  you?  And  has  your 
breed  of  cats  with  long  hair  succeeded  well?  If  you  have  a 
male  Kitten  with  tawny  hair  and  blue  eyes,  I  pray  you  to  send 
him  with  the  young  Negress  you  have  promised  me ;  I  will 
give  you  in  exchange  my  little  bitch's  next  litter. 

'Pray  you,  do  not  omit  to  send  the  model  of  the  Wrapper 
of  azure  satin,  with  the  cross-cut  collar  and  the  trimming  of 
sables.  I  asked  for  it  in  my  last  letter.  Pray  you,  despatch 
it  at  once;  'twere  best  to-morrow  at  daybreak,  and  by  a 
mounted  messenger.  And  send  me  also  a  vessel  of  your 
boasted  ointment  for  the  king's  evil,  and  some  of  that 
foreign  wood  for  the  finger-nails. 

'Our  astrologer  predicts  a  very  hot  summer,  and  War. 
What  saith  your  prophet?  One's  faith  jumps  always  with 
the  astrologer  belonging  to  somebody  else. 

'  I  and  Ludovico,  my  lord,  commend  ourselves  to  your 
gracious  remembrance,  beloved  sister,  and  that  of  your 
illustrious  consort,  the  Signor  Marchese  Francesco. 

Beatrice  Sforza.' 

II 

Notwithstanding  the  frank  tone  of  this  letter,  it  was  full  of 
finished  policy.  Beatrice  concealed  from  her  sister  her  private 
anxieties  and  annoyances,  for,  as  matter  of  fact,  peace  was 
very  far  from  reigning  between  husband  and  wife.  The  lady 
hated  Leonardo  neither  for  heresy  nor  atheism,  but  because 
he  had  painted  the  portrait  of  Cecilia  Bergamini,  the  Duchess's 
most  detested  rival.  Of  late,  also,  she  had  suspected  an 
intrigue  with  one  of  her  ladies,  Madonna  Lucrezia  Crivelli. 

At  this  time  Ludovico  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  power. 
Son  of  Francesco  Sforza — that  daring  mercenary  from  the 
Romagna,  half  soldier,  half  brigand — he  dreamed  of  making 
himself  lord  of  an  united  Italy. 

'The  Pope,'  he  boasted,  'shall  be  my  chaplain,  the 
Emperor  my  captain,  Venice  my  treasury,  and  the  King  of 
France  my  courier.' 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  175 

He  signed  himself  *  Ludovicus  Maria  Sfortia  Anglus  Dux 
MediolaniJ  deducing  his  descent  from  Anglus  the  Trojan, 
companion  of  ^Eneas.  The  Colossus,  monument  to  his 
father  Francesco,  with  the  inscription  Ecce  Deus,  was  designed 
as  a  testimony  to  the  divine  origin  of  the  Sforzas.  For 
all  his  external  prosperity,  however,  the  Duke  was  tortured 
by  anxiety  and  secret  fear.  He  knew  himself  unloved  by 
the  people,  and  reckoned  a  usurper.  Once  in  the  Piazza 
dell'  Arrengo  the  people,  seeing  the  widow  of  Gian  Galeazzo 
with  her  eldest  son,  had  shouted,  '  Long  live  Francesco,  our 
rightful  Duke !' 

The  boy  was  eight  years  old,  and  famed  for  his  intelligence 
and  beauty.  Marin  Sanuto,  the  Venetian,  wrote  of  him : 
'The  people  desire  him  for  their  prince,  even  as  they  desire 
God.'  Beatrice  and  her  husband  had  recognised  that  the 
death  of  Gian  Galeazzo  had  not  been  sufficient  to  make 
them  lords  of  Milan,  since  in  this  child  the  shade  of  his 
father  was  rising  from  the  tomb. 

There  was  talk  in  the  city  of  mysterious  portents.  At 
night,  above  the  castle  towers,  a  strange  glow  had  appeared 
as  that  of  a  conflagration.  In  the  palace  chambers  agonising 
groans  had  been  heard.  It  was  remembered  that  when  Gian 
Galeazzo  had  lain  dead  it  had  been  impossible  to  shut  his 
left  eye,  omen  of  the  imminent  death  of  one  of  his  near  kins- 
men ;  the  eyelids  of  the  Madonna  dell'  Albore  had  quivered  ; 
outside  the  Porta  Ticinese  an  old  woman's  cow  had  dropped 
a  double-headed  calf.  The  Duchess  herself  had  seen  an 
apparition  in  the  Sala  della  Rocchetta,  had  fainted  with 
terror,  and  refused  to  discuss  it  with  any  one,  even  her 
husband.  She  had  altogether  lost  that  vivacity  and  grace 
which  had  been  so  attractive  to  her  spouse,  and,  filled  with 
the  gloomiest  prognostications,  was  awaiting  the  approaching 
birth  of  her  child. 


Ill 

On  a  melancholy  December  evening,  while  snowflakes 
were  slowly  falling  on  the  streets  of  Milan,  II  Moro  sat  in  the 
little  detached  apartment  of  the  palace  in  which  he  had 
installed  his  new  love,  Madonna  Lucrezia  Crivelli.  The 
flames  from  the  fire  on  the  open  hearth  lighted  up  the 
polished  doors  with  their  inlaid  views  of  the  ancient  build- 


i76  THE  FORERUNNER 

ings  in  Rome,  the  moulded  and  chequered  lacework  of  the 
ceiling  touched  up  with  gold,  the  walls  covered  with  Cor- 
dovan leather  and  gold  hangings,  the  tall  black  chairs  and 
settles,  the  round  table,  the  novel  by  Boiardo  lying  open,  the 
sheets  of  music,  the  mother-o'-pearl  mandoline,  and  the 
crystal  goblet  of  Balnea  aponitana,  a  spa  water,  at  that  time 
greatly  in  fashion.  On  the  wall  hung  the  lady's  portrait 
painted  by  Leonardo.  Caradosso  had  carved  the  marble 
reliefs  of  the  chimney-piece — curled  serpents  gnawing  a  vine, 
and  naked  children,  half  cherubs,  half  cupids,  playing  with 
the  sacred  instruments  of  the  Lord's  Passion ;  nails,  sponge, 
lance,  and  crown  of  thorns. 

The  fierce  wind  howled  in  the  chimney,  but  within  the 
dainty  studiolo  all  was  comfort  and  luxury.  Madonna 
Lucrezia,  seated  on  a  cushion  at  the  Duke's  feet,  was  sorrow- 
ful, for  he  had  chided  her,  the  ground  of  his  complaint  being 
that  she  did  not  visit  Beatrice,  his  duchess. 

'Your  Excellency !'  cried  the.  girl,  with  drooping  eyelids, 
' 1  beseech  you,  constrain  me  not !     I  am  incapable  of  lying.' 

'Lying?'  echoed  II  Moro ;  'but  this  is  concealment,  not 
lying  !  Did  not  the  Thunderer  himself  hide  his  pranks  from 
his  jealous  spouse?  And  Theseus?  and  Phaedra?  and 
Medea  ?  All  the  gods  and  heroes  of  antiquity !  We,  poor 
mortals,  cannot  resist  the  might  of  the  god  of  Love.  But 
would  it  be  well  to  have  the  evil  flagrant  ?  Then  you  lead 
your  neighbour  into  temptation,  which  is  contrary  to  all 
Christian  charity.  And  charity,  you  know,  covers  a  multi- 
tude of  sins.' 

He  laughed ;  but  Lucrezia  shook  her  head  and  looked  at 
him  with  her  large  eyes,  innocent  and  pensive  as  a  child's. 

*  You  know,'  my  lord,  ' I  am  happy  in  your  love;  but  some- 
times I  fall  into  such  a  remorse,  remembering  that  I  am 
deceiving  Madonna  Beatrice,  who  loves  me  as  a  sister,  that  I 
know  not  how  to  endure  it.' 

'  Enough,  enough,  my  child ! '  cried  the  Duke,  and  drew 
her  to  his  knee,  throwing  one  arm  round  her  waist,  and  with 
the  other  hand  caressing  her  smooth  raven  tresses,  which 
were  confined  by  the  ferronicra,  a  thread  of  gold  fastened 
over  the  brow  by  a  diamond,  which  glistened  like  a  tear 
Lowering  her  eyelashes  she  permitted  his  caresses  coldly,  and 
without  returning  them. 

'Ah,  if  you  knew  how  I  loved  thee,  my  gentle  one!   so 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  177 

sweet,  so  modest !     Thee  only  ! '  he  sighed,  breathing  again 
that  odour  of  violet  and  musk. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  frightened  maid-servant  rushed  in. 

'  Madonna !  madonna  ! '  she  cried ;  ■  there !  down  by  the 
great  door  !     O  Lord,  have  pity  on  us  sinners  ! ' 

*  Speak  !'  said  the  Duke,  'who  is  at  the  great  door?' 

'Beatrice,  the  Duchess.' 

II  Moro  turned  pale. 

1  The  key  !  Quick,  the  key  of  the  little  door  !  I  will  go 
through  the  court-yard.     Give  me  the  key — at  once.' 

'  But  the  cavaliers  of  Madonna  Beatrice  are  surrounding 
the  house  ! '  cried  the  servant,  wringing  her  hands. 

'  Then  it 's  a  trap,'  said  the  Duke  rubbing  his  brow.  But 
how  has  she  come  by  the  knowledge  ?  Who  can  have  told 
her?1 

'  Surely  Monna  Sidonia,  the  accursed  witch  who  creeps  in 
to  vex  us  with  her  unguents  and  her  phials.  I  warned  you, 
Madonna,  to  beware  of  her.' 

'What's  to  be  done?    Dio  mio!    What's  to  be  done? 
muttered  the  Duke,  ever  paler. 

From  the  street  came  a  violent  knocking  on  the  great  door 
and  the  servant  rushed  to  the  staircase. 

1  Hide  me,  Lucrezia.     Hide  me  ! ' 

'  Most  Excellent,  if  Madonna  Beatrice  suspects,  she  will 
search  the  house.  Were  it  not  better  that  you  went  straight 
up  to  her?' 

I  God  forbid  !  You  know  not  the  manner  of  woman  she  is. 
Good  Lord,  to  think  what  may  come  of  this  !  Remember 
her  state — the  danger  to  the  infant !  Hide  me ;  hide  me  at 
once — no  matter  where.' 

At  this  moment  the  Duke  more  nearly  resembled  a  thief 
detected  than  a  descendant  of  Anglus,  the  companion  of 
^Eneas. 

Lucrezia  took  him  to  her  dressing-chamber  and  hid  him  in 
the  wardrobe,  a  large  press  let  into  the. wall,  with  white  doors 
inlaid  with  gold ;  here  he  effaced  himself  in  a  corner  among 
the  dresses. 

'What  a  position!'  he  said  to  himself.  'Exactly  like 
the  ridiculous  heroes  of  Boccaccio  or  Sacchetti.' 

II  Moro  was,  however,  in  no  mood  to  appreciate  the  ridi- 
culous side  of  the  adventure.  He  drew  from  his  bosom  a 
small  case  with  relics  of  St.  Christopher;  another  containing 

M 


378  THE  FORERUNNER 

a  morsel  of  Egyptian  mummy,  a  talisman  much  in  vogue. 
In  the  dark  he  could  not  distinguish  which  was  which  of 
these  treasures,  so  he  kissed  them  both,  crossing  himself  and 
praying. 

Hearing  the  voices  of  his  wife  and  his  mistress  entering 
the  closet  together,  he  turned  cold  with  fear.  But  they  were 
talking  amicably  as  though  nothing  were  amiss.  Lucrezia 
was  showing  the  Duchess  her  new  house,  at  her  own 
urgent  request.  Probably  Beatrice  had  no  clear  proofs  of 
her  case,  and  therefore  was  dissembling  her  suspicion.  It 
was  a  duel  of  feminine  cunning. 

'What!  gowns  here,  too?'  said  the  Duchess  indifferently, 
as  she  approached  the  press  in  which  her  husband  had  settled 
himself  down  half  dead  with  fear. 

'Yes,  old  gowns.  What  I  wear  at  home.  Would  your 
Excellence  like  to  look?'  said  Lucrezia,  also  indifferently, 
and  she  partly  opened  the  door. 

'  Hearken,  my  dear.  Where  do  you  keep  that  robe  I  was 
so  fond  of — don't  you  remember? — which  you  wore  at 
the  Pallavicini  fete  last  summer?  Little  golden  caterpillars 
sparking  like  fireflies  on  a  purple  ground.' 

1 1  don't  remember,'  said  Lucrezia.  '  Oh,  yes,  though — it 
must  be  here,'  and  she  moved  away  from  her  lover's  hiding- 
place,  leaving  its  door  ajar,  and  drew  the  Duchess  to  the  other 
wardrobe. 

'  And  she  declared  she  could  not  deceive !  *  thought  the 
duke,  pleased  notwithstanding  his  terror.  '  What  presence  of 
mind !  Oh,  women !  'tis  from  you  princes  should  learn 
diplomacy.' 

Presently  the  ladies  moved  away  into  the  adjoining  apart- 
ment, and  II  Moro  breathed  more  freely,  though  he  still 
convulsively  clutched  at  the  relics  of  St.  Christopher  and  the 
morsel  of  mummy. 

'Two  hundred  imperial  ducats  to  the  monastery  of  St. 
Maria  delle  Grazie  for  oil  and  candles,  if  it  ends  well ! '  he 
vowed. 

At  last  the  maid  came  running,  opened  the  press,  and 
with  an  air  both  respectful  and  sly  let  the  prisoner  out,  telling 
him  the  danger  was  passed,  and  the  most  excellent  Madonna 
Beatrice  had  been  pleased  to  retire,  after  taking  a  gracious 
leave  of  Madonna  Lucrezia. 

Having  crossed  himself,  he  returned  to  the  studiolo,  drank 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  179 

a  glass  of  the  Balnea  aponitana  water,  looked  at  Lucrezia,  who 
sat  by  the  fireplace  as  before,  her  head  drooping,  and  smiled. 
Then  he  stepped  cautiously  to  her  side,  bent  down  and  took 
her  in  his  arms.     The  girl  shuddered. 

1  Leave  me  !  Leave  me,  I  pray  you.  I  beseech  you  to  go 
away.     How  can  you  do  this  after  what  has  happened  ?' 

But  the  Duke  unheeding,  covered  her  face  and  neck  and 
hair  with  ardent  kisses.  He  had  found  a  new  charm  in  her 
unsuspected  talent  for  deception,  and  never  had  she  seemed 
to  him  more  lovely. 

The  December  storm  still  howled  in  the  chimney ;  but  the 
glow  of  the  fire  illuminated  the  chain  of  laughing  naked 
children  who,  among  the  vine-branches  of  Bacchus  brandished 
nail,  hammer,  spear,  and  crown  of  thorns. 

IV 

For  three  months,  under  the  direction  of  Bramante, 
Caradosso,  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  preparation  had  been 
making  for  the  great  ball,  decreed  by  the  Duke  for  New  Year's 
Day.  No  less  than  two  thousand  persons  had  been  invited. 
On  the  appointed  day,  at  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
the  guests  assembled  at  the  palace.  A  snowstorm  had  damaged 
the  roads  ;  the  castle  towers  and  battlemented  walls  with  the 
loop-holes  for  the  mouths  of  cannon  showed  with  ghastly  white- 
ness against  the  heavy  clouds.  Fires  had  been  kindled  in  the 
wide  courtyard,  and  round  these  were  assembled  noisy  groups 
of  equerries,  palanquin-bearers,  grooms,  couriers,  outriders, 
and  their  like.  Gilded  chariots  and  coaches,  very  cumbrous, 
and  drawn  by  cart-horses,  were  setting  down  fur-wrapped 
ladies  and  cavaliers  at  the  entrance  of  the  palace,  or  crossing 
the  drawbridge  which  led  to  the  inner  court  of  the  Rocchetta. 
The  frosted  windows  glittered  in  the  festal  illuminations 
within. 

Entering  the  vestibule,  the  guests  passed  between  two 
long  rows  of  ducal  guards,  Turkish  mamelukes,  Greek  stra- 
dioies,  Scotch  bowmen,  Swiss  lanzknechts,  all  in  armour, 
and  bearing  heavy  halberts.  In  front  of  them  stood  the 
pages,  pretty  as  maidens,  in  parti- coloured  liveries,  the 
right  side  pink  velvet,  the  left  blue  satin,  trimmed  with 
swan's-down,  and  silver-embroidered  with  the  arms  of  Sforza 
and  Visconti.     Their  garments  were  so  tight  as  to  display 


i8o  THE  FORERUNNER 

every  outline  of  their  lithe  and  graceful  bodies ;  and  in  their 
hands  these  charming  candlebearers  held  torches  of  red  and 
yellow  wax,  such  as  were  used  in  the  churches.  As  each 
guest  entered  the  great  hall,  a  herald,  attended  by  two 
trumpeters,  proclaimed  his  style  and  titles;  then  a  vista 
opened  before  him  of  vast  dazzlingly-lighted  saloons  :  '  the 
hall  of  the  white  doves  on  a  red  field ' ;  '  the  hall  of  gold, 
with  the  ducal  hunting  trophies;  'the  hall  of  purple,'  hung 
with  gold-embroidered  purple  satin,  adorned  with  buckets  and 
firebrands  (the  insignia  of  the  Dukes  of  Milan,  who  at  pleasure 
could  blow  up  the  fire  of  war,  or  quench  it  with  the  waters  of 
peace).  Last  was  the  small  and  exquisite  'black  saloon,' 
designed  by  Bramante,  and  adorned  on  walls  and  ceiling  with 
frescoes  by  Leonardo,  still  unfinished. 

The  richly-dressed  crowd  buzzed  like  a  swarm  of  bees. 
Their  attire  was  iridescent,  gorgeous,  not  seldom  tasteless 
through  over -richness,  in  fashions  borrowed  from  many 
lands,  so  that  a  witty  writer  of  the  day  said  that  he 
read  the  invasion  of  foreigners,  and  the  enslavement  of 
Italy,  in  the  garb  of  his  own  countrymen.  The  robes  of 
the  ladies,  hanging  in  heavy  folds,  and  stiff  with  gold  and 
jewels,  suggested  ecclesiastical  vestments.  Many  were  heir- 
looms handed  down  from  long-forgotten  grandmothers.  There 
was  ample  display  of  fair  shoulders  and  bosoms,  and  hair  was 
confined  in  golden  nets,  and  plaited  in  thick  strands,  arti- 
ficially lengthened  by  ribbons  and  false  hair.  Fashion 
proscribed  eyebrows ;  therefore  ladies  whom  nature  had  dis- 
figured by  those  superfluities  carefully  removed  them,  hair  by 
hair,  with  steel  tweezers  called  *  pelatoio?  Rouge,  and  heavy 
perfumes  such  as  musk,  amber,  viverra,  and  cypress  powder, 
were  regarded  as  mere  necessary  decencies. 

Here  and  there  in  the  crowd  might  be  seen  girls  and 
women  inheritors  of  that  peculiar  charm  only  seen  in 
Lombard y,  that  beauty,  as  it  were,  of  vaporous  shadows, 
melting  like  mist  into  the  transparent  pallor  of  the  skin; 
of  oval  faces,  and  delicate  chiselling  of  features  such  as 
Leonardo  delighted  to  paint. 

Madonna  Violante  Borromeo  was  by  universal  consent 
acclaimed  queen  of  the  festival,  with  her  black  and  brilliant 
eyes,  her  tresses  dark  as  night,  her  triumphant  beauty  patent 
to  all.  Her  dress  was  embroidered  with  moths  burning 
their  wings  in  flames — a  warning  to  all  heedless  admirers. 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  181 

Yet  it  was  not  Madonna  Violante  who  attracted  the  eyes  of 
veritable  connoisseurs  in  female  loveliness  so  much  as  the 
graceful  Diana  Pallavicino.  Her  eyes  were  clear  and  cold  as 
ice,  her  fair  hair  was  almost  colourless,  her  smile  calm, 
her  voice  slow,  melodious,  and  thrilling  as  the  strings  of  a  viol. 
She  wore  a  simple  dress  of  white  damask  with  long  floating 
lines,  trimmed  with  ribbons  of  palest  green  :  amid  the  noise 
and  splendour  of  the  feast  she  seemed  a  being  apart,  alien, 
solitary,  like  a  water-lily  slumbering  on  some  silent  moonlit 
pool. 

Suddenly  the  horns  and  trumpets  sounded,  and  all  the 
guests  moved  to  the  great  Hall  of  the  Tennis  Court.  Here 
waxlights  burned  in  fiery  clusters  upon  huge  candelabra, 
and  woke  sparkles  in  the  golden  stars  which  strewed  the 
azure  ceiling-vault.  The  balcony,  in  which  the  choir  was 
concealed,  was  hung  with  silken  carpets,  and  with  garlands 
of  evergreens. 

Punctual  to  the  moment  prescribed  by  the  astrologers 
(for  the  Duke  never  moved  a  step  nor,  as  the  wits  had  it, 
changed  his  shirt  nor  kissed  his  wife,  without  first  consulting 
the  stars),  II  Moro  and  Beatrice  made  their  entry,  robed  in 
ermine-lined  brocaded  mantles,  followed  by  pages,  chamber- 
lains, and  lords-in-waiting.  On  the  breast  of  the  Duke,  set  as 
a  brooch,  glowed  a  ruby  of  extraordinary  brilliance  and  size, 
taken  from  the  treasure  of  Gian  Galeazzo. 

As  for  Beatrice,  she  had  of  late  greatly  declined  in  beauty; 
her  unformed  still  girlish  expression  and  manner  had  a 
strange  pathos,  contrasted  with  the  state  of  her  health  and 
evident  sufferings. 

The  Duke  gave  the  signal,  the  seneschal  raised  his  staff,  the 
music  struck  up,  and  the  guests  took  their  allotted  seats  at 
the  splendid  banquet. 


And  now  a  commotion  arose.  The  ambassador  of  the 
Grand  Duke  of  Muscovy,  Danilo  Mamiroff,  refused  to  sit 
below  the  envoy  of  the  Most  Serene  Republic  of  St.  Mark. 
To  all  explanations,  persuasions  and  entreaties  the  old  man 
was  obstinate,  and  only  repeated  : — 

1 1  will  not  sit  down.  I  will  not  sit  down.  'Tis  an  affront ! ' 
Nor  recked  he  of  curious  looks  and  ironical  smiles  turned  on 
him  from  every  side. 


182  THE  FORERUNNER 

'What's  the  matter?  More  trouble  with  the  Muscovites? 
Good  Lord,  what  barbarians  they  show  themselves !  They 
always  expect  the  best  places,  and  won't  listen  to  reason. 
They  are  for  ever  in  the  way.  Mere  savages !  And  such  a 
language  !  They  might  as  well  be  Turks  !  A  nation  of  wild 
beasts ! ' 

Messer  Boccalino,  the  interpreter,  a  Mantuan  of  great 
resource,  hurried  to  the  ambassador : — 

*  But  Messer  Daniele,  Messer  Daniele  ! '  he  cried  in  broken 
Russian,  bowing  low,  and  making  gestures  of  perfect  servility, 
'Messer  Daniele,  you  really  must  sit !  'Tis  a  mere  Milanese 
custom.  Sit  down,  I  beseech  you,  or  his  Highness  will  be 
offended.' 

Nikita  Karachiarov,  Mamiroff's  young  secretary,  had  come 
likewise  to  the  old  man. 

'  Danilo  Kusmitch,  little  father,  do  not,  I  pray  you,  be 
wroth.  No  one  can  keep  his  own  rule  in  a  strange  monastery  ! 
What  would  you  have  ?  These  foreigners  are  ignorant  of  our 
usages.  Pray  you  beware  lest  they  take  you  by  the  arms  and 
exclude  you  from  the  banquet.  Think  what  a  figure  we 
should  cut ! ' 

'  Nikita,  hold  your  tongue.  'Tis  not  for  you  to  teach  a  man 
of  my  years.  I  know  very  well  what  I  am  about.  I  am  not 
going  to  give  in.  I  will  never  sit  below  that  man  from  Venice. 
I  represent  my  sovereign ;  and  my  sovereign  is  the  Autocrat 
of  all  the  Russias.     .     .     .' 

'  Messer  Daniele  !  Messer  Daniele ! '  stammered  Boccalino. 

'  Leave  me  alone,  you  monkey-face.  What  are  you  squeak- 
ing about?  Getaway.  I  have  said  I  will  not  sit  down,  and 
sit  down  I  will  not ! ' 

The  old  man's  small  eyes,  gleaming  like  those  of  a  bear 
under  his  frowning  brows,  flashed  fires  of  pride,  fury,  and 
indomitable  obstinacy.  His  emerald-studded  staff  trembled 
in  the  tight  grasp  of  his  nervous  fingers.  It  was  clear  that 
he  was  not  to  be  subdued  by  any  human  force.  The  Duke 
summoned  the  Venetian  envoy,  and  with  that  happy 
courtesy  which  was  his  characteristic,  he  begged  as  a  personal 
favour  to  himself  that  the  Italian  guest  would  consent  to  the 
change  in  his  seat.  He  added  that  no  one  attached  the 
slightest  importance  to  the  childish  arrogance  of  these  utter 
barbarians.  Yet  in  point  of  fact  Ludovico  greatly  prized  the 
favour  of  the  Grand  Duke  of  Muscovy ;  he  reckoned  on  his 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  183 

countenance  to  conclude  an  advantageous  treaty  with  the 
Sultan.  The  Venetian  looked  at  MamirorT,  contemptuously 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  remarked  that  his  Excellency  spoke 
well,  and  quarrels  over  precedence  were  unworthy  of  edu- 
cated persons ;  then  calmly  seated  himself  in  the  chair 
allotted.  Danilo  Kusmitch  had  not  understood  the  con- 
versation, nor  would  it  have  altered  his  sense  of  his  own 
importance.  Unconcerned  at  the  fire  of  hostile  eyes,  com- 
placently stroking  his  beard  and  adjusting  the  sash  and  the 
sable-trimmed  satin  pelisse  upon  his  corpulent  person,  Danilo 
seated  himself  heavily  and  majestically  upon  the  chair  he  had 
conquered ;  while  Nikita  and  Boccalino  retired  to  the  lower 
table,  and  sat  beside  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

The  boastful  Mantuan  told  tales,  half  fact,  half  fiction,  of 
the  wonders  he  had  seen  in  Muscovy  ;  but  Leonardo,  desiring 
more  dependable  information  about  the  far-off  land  which, 
like  all  things  vast  and  mysterious,  excited  his  immediate 
interest,  addressed  himself  to  Karachiarov,  asking  questions 
about  its  boundless  plains,  its  immense  rivers  and  forests,  the 
flood-tide  in  its  Hyperborean  ocean  and  its  Hyrcanian  sea, 
the  sun-lit  northern  nights;  finally  about  certain  of  his 
friends  who  had  gone  thither — Pietro  Solari,  who  was  engaged 
in  the  building  of  the  Granite  Palace  in  Moscow,  and  Fiora- 
vanti  of  Bologna,  who  was  putting  up  certain  fine  edifices  in 
the  square  of  the  Kremlin. 

*  Messere,'  said  the  lovely  Madonna  Ermellina  to  the 
interpreter  at  her  side,  '  I  have  heard  that  astonishing 
country  of  which  you  speak  called  "  Rossia  "  because  of  its 
wondrous  abounding  in  roses.  Pray  you,  is  this  to  be 
credited  ? ' 

Boccalino  laughed,  and  assured  her  that  in  '  Rossia '  there 
was,  on  the  contrary,  sad  lack  of  the  queen  of  flowers,  on 
account  of  the  intolerable  cold  ;  and  he  told  the  following 
tale  :— 

'  Certain  Florentine  merchants  once  went  to  Poland,  but 
were  not  allowed  further  into  '  Rossia '  because  of  the  state 
of  war  between  Poland  and  the  Grand  Duke  of  Muscovy* 
The  Florentines,  desirous  of  buying  sables,  invited  Russian 
merchants  to  the  bank  of  the  Borysthenes,  which  flowed 
between  the  two  countries  ;  and  bargaining  began  across  the 
river,  each  party  shouting  their  loudest.  But  so  great  was 
the  cold  that  the  words  froze  in  the  air  and  reached  not  the 


i84  THE  FORERUNNER 

opposite  bank.  Certain  ingenious  peasants  then  made  a 
huge  fire  on  the  midmost  point  of  the  ice-bound  river ;  and 
presently,  lo !  the  words  which  had  remained  a  whole  hour 
in  mid-river  air  unable  to  move,  began  to  thaw  and  to  drip, 
gurgling  and  clattering  like  the  droppings  in  the  melting  time 
of  spring ;  and  at  last  they  were  distinctly  heard  on  the  far 
shore  by  the  Florentines,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the 
Muscovites  who  had  uttered  them  had  long  since  left  the 
opposite  bank.' 

After  listening  to  this  anecdote,  the  ladies  looked  with 
great  compassion  at  Nikita,  the  inhabitant  of  so  unpleasing  a 
country.  Nikita,  however,  did  not  respond  to  their  glances,  for 
his  attention  had  been  arrested  by  a  wondrous  dish  just 
served  ;  a  naked  Andromeda,  made  of  the  breasts  of  capons, 
bound  to  a  rock  of  cream-cheese,  and  about  to  be  loosed  by 
a  winged  Perseus  of  veal. 

The  meat  courses  had  all  been  served  on  plates  of  gold, 
but  the  fish  was  eaten  off  silver,  as  more  appropriate  to  the 
watery  element ;  silvered  bread  and  silvered  lemons  were 
handed  round,  and  then  among  oysters,  lampreys,  and  trout 
appeared  Amphitrite  herself,  made  of  the  white  flesh  of  eels, 
riding  in  a  mother-o'-pearl  chariot  drawn  by  dolphins  over  an 
ocean  of  quivering  blue  jelly. 

After  this  came  the  sweets,  marchpane,  pistachios,  cedar- 
cones,  almonds,  and  burnt  sugar,  edifices  designed  by 
Bramante  and  Leonardo — Hercules  in  the  garden  of  the 
Hesperides,  Hippolytus  and  Phaedra,  Bacchus  and  Ariadne, 
Danae  and  Zeus — a  whole  Olympus  of  resuscitated  gods. 

Nikita  stared  with  childish  enjoyment,  but  Danilo  was  so 
much  shocked  that  he  lost  his  appetite,  and  growled  between 
his  teeth — 

*  Antichristian  abominations  !  Horrible  paganism  !  Hor- 
rible ! ' 

VI 

Dancing  began ;  slow  and  stately  measures  known  as 
'Venus  and  Zephyr,'  'Cruel  Destiny,'  'Cupid,'  etc.;  the 
dresses  of  the  ladies,  being  long  and  heavy,  did  not  admit  of 
rapid  motion.  The  music  was  tender  and  soft,  full  of  pas- 
sionate languor  like  the  sonnets  of  Petrarch,  and  to  it  moved 
dames  and  cavaliers,  meeting  and  parting  with  bows,  sighs, 
and  smiles,  all  the  perfection  of  dignity  and  grace. 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  185 

Messer  Galeazzo  Sanseverino,  the  young  commandant  of 
II  Moro's  guards,  was  the  cynosure  of  the  ladies'  eyes ;  he 
was  attired  in  white,  with  open-work  sleeves  upon  a  pink 
lining ;  his  white  shoes  had  diamond  buckles,  and  his  face 
was  handsome,  but  fatigued,  dissipated,  and  effeminate.  An 
approving  murmur  ran  through  the  crowd  when  in  the  dance, 
'  Sorte  crudele1  he  dropped  (of  course  accidentally),  first  his 
shoe,  and  then  his  mantle,  but  continued  gliding  and  circling 
with  that  air  of  saddened  negligence  which  was  considered 
the  mark  of  breeding.  Danilo  Mamiroff  watched  him  in 
astonishment,  spat  contemptuously,  and  exclaimed — 

*  Good  Lord,  what  a  fool ! ' 

The  Duchess  was  not  dancing ;  her  heart  was  heavy,  and 
only  long  practice  enabled  her  to  play  her  part  of  amiable 
hostess,  to  receive  the  New- Year's  congratulations,  and  to 
respond  with  suitable  banalities  to  the  fine  speeches  of 
the  courtiers.  At  times  she  felt  unable  to  carry  the  business 
through;  she  longed  to  escape  into  some  corner  where  she 
could  burst  into  sobs. 

Presently  she  entered  a  small  and  secluded  apartment, 
where  by  a  fire  certain  young  ladies  and  courtiers  were  talking 
in  a  close  ring.    She  asked  them  of  what  they  spoke. 

'Of  platonic  love,  your  Excellency,'  replied  one  of  the 
ladies.  '  Messer  Antoniotto  Fregoso  maintains  that  a  lady 
does  no  violence  to  her  modesty  by  kissing  a  man  on  the  lips 
so  it  be  by  the  way  of  ideal  love.' 

*  And  how  does  he  prove  that  ? '  asked  the  Duchess  absently. 
Messer  Antoniotto  answered  eagerly  himself. 

*  With  your  Grace's  permission,  I  maintain  that  the  lips 
are  the  gates  of  the  soul,  and  when  they  meet  in  a  platonic 
salutation  the  souls  of  the  lovers  rise  as  to  their  natural 
outlet.  Plato  condemns  not  a  kiss;  and  Solomon,  in  the 
Song  of  Songs,  typifying  the  mystical  union  of  the  soul 
with  God,  says,  "Let  him  kiss  me  with  the  kisses  of  his 
mouth."' 

An  old  baron,  a  country  knight,  with  a  blunt  and  honest 
face,  objected  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  husband ;  but  the 
pretty  lady,  Fiordiligi,  shrugging  her  graceful  bare  shoulders, 
reproved  his  barbarism. 

1  Dio  mio  !  we  speak  of  love,  not  of  marriage  !  Would  you 
profane  the  sacred  names  "  Lover  "  and  "  Beloved  "  with  those 
ignoble,  rude,  shameless  titles,  "  husband"  and  "wife"?' 


186  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  baron  would  have  answered  her,  but  Messer  Antoniotto 
interrupted  with  further  descant ;  the  Duchess,  however,  was 
tired,  and  moved  away. 

In  the  next  saloon,  verses  were  being  recited  by  a  noted  poet 
from  Rome,  Serafino  d'Aquila,  surnamed  the  Unique  ;  a  little 
man  very  carefully  washed,  shaved,  curled,  and  scented,  with 
pink  cheeks  and  a  languishing  smile,  irregular  teeth,  and  wily 
eyes. 

Seeing  Lucrezia  in  the  circle  of  ladies  surrounding  this 
servant  of  the  Muses,  Beatrice  paled,  but  instantly  recovering 
herself,  she  advanced  and  kissed  her  with  her  usual  gracious- 
ness.  Before  she  could  speak,  however,  an  interruption 
occurred  in  the  entry  of  a  stout  and  gorgeous  lady,  who  was 
suffering  from  bleeding  of  the  nose. 

1  'Tis  an  event  upon  which  even  Messer  Unico  himself  could 
scarce  make  love-verses,'  observed  one  of  the  courtiers  con- 
temptously,  for  the  sufferer  was  old  and  ugly. 

1  Messer  Unico,  feeling  his  reputation  at  stake,  sprang  to 
his  feet,  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair,  threw  back  his 
head,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

1  Hush  !  hush  ! '  murmured  the  ladies.  '  Messer  Unico 
composes  !  If  your  Excellency  would  move  a  little  further 
she  would  hear  better ! ' 

Madonna  Ermellina  took  a  lute  and  ran  her  fingers  over 
the  strings;  thus  softly  accompanied,  the  poet,  in  a  voice 
guttural  and  majestic  as  that  of  a  ventriloquist,  declaimed  his 
lines.  They  were  to  the  effect  that  Love,  moved  by  a  lover 
to  shoot  at  the  heart  of  a  fair  one,  had,  owing  to  the  bandage 
over  his  eyes,  shot  awry,  and  wounded  not  the  heart  but  the 
nose  of  the  unfortunate  lady. 

The  audience  applauded. 

*  Most  beautiful !  Stupendous!  Unsurpassable!  What  con- 
ceits !  What  facility !  Not  like  our  Bellincioni  who  melts 
away  under  the  exertion  of  putting  a  sonnet  together !  Truly, 
when  he  raised  his  eyes  I  felt  the  very  wind  of  his  inspiration 
making  me  wellnigh  afraid  ! ' 

One  lady  offered  him  wine,  another  cooling  tablets  of  mint; 
another  placed  him  in  an  armchair  and  fanned  him.  He 
drooped  and  languished  and  blinked  his  eyes  like  a  gorged 
cat  in  the  afternoon  sunshine. 

Then  he  produced  another  sonnet  in  praise  of  the  Duchess, 
which  told  how  the  snow,  put  to  shame  by  the  whiteness  of 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  187 

her  skin,  had  in  vengeance  turned  itself  to  ice,  and  caused  her 
to  slip  and  wellnigh  to  fall  upon  the  courtyard  pavement. 

Then  he  celebrated  a  lady  who  had  lost  a  front  tooth  ;  'twas 
the  device  of  Love,  who,  dwelling  in  her  mouth,  required  a 
loophole  for  the  shooting  of  his  arrows. 

4  But  this  man  is  a  genius  ! '  cried  the  ladies  ;  '  his  name  will 
go  down  to  posterity  linked  with  that  of  Dante  ! '   . 

'  Nay,  higher  than  Dante's.  Where  in  the  verses  of  Dante 
will  you  find  these  subtleties  of  our  Unique  one  ?' 

*  Ladies,'  said  the  poet  humbly,  'methinks  you  go  too  far. 
Dante  has  his  special  merits.  Every  one  has  his  own 
qualities !  As  for  me,  I  would  give  Dante's  glory  for  your 
applause.' 

He  began  another  sonnet;  but  the  Duchess  had  lost 
patience,  and  went  away. 

Returning  to  the  main  saloon,  she  commanded  her 
page,  Ricciardetto,  a  faithful  lad,  enamoured  of  her  she 
sometimes  fancied,  to  attend  with  a  torch  at  the  door  of 
her  bedchamber.  Then  she  hurried  through  the  long  line  of 
brilliant  and  crowded  rooms,  passed  along  a  distant  and 
deserted  gallery,  and  ascended  the  winding  stair.  The 
immense  vaulted  apartment,  now  used  as  the  ducal  bed- 
chamber, lay  in  the  rectangular  northern  tower  of  the  castle ; 
she  entered,  took  a  candle,  and  went  to  a  small  oaken  cup- 
board let  into  the  thickness  of  the  wall,  in  which  the  Duke 
kept  important  papers  and  his  private  letters.  She  had  stolen 
the  key  from  her  husband,  and  now,  nervous  and  agitated, 
fitted  it  to  the  lock.  However,  the  attempt  showed 
the  lock  to  be  broken,  and  she  tore  open  the  brass  fasten- 
ings, only  to  find  that  the  shelves  had  been  emptied  of 
their  contents.  Obviously  II  Moro,  noting  the  loss  of  his 
key,  had  transported  his  letters  elsewhere.  Beatrice  stood 
motionless. 

Snowflakes  were  fleeting  past  the  window  like  white 
phantoms.  The  wind  whistled,  and  howled,  and  moaned, 
and  the  lady  shuddered  as  she  listened,  for  these  voices  of 
the  storm  and  of  the  night  recalled  to  her  mind  a  something 
terrible  which  she  was  never  able  to  forget  for  long. 

Her  eye  fell  on  the  round  lid  of  iron  which  covered 
the  aperture  to  the  Dionysius  ear,  the  hearing-tube  which 
Leonardo  had  run  from  the  lower  chambers  of  the  palace  to 
the   Duke's  bedchamber.     She  put  her  ear  to  it  now  and 


188  THE  FORERUNNER 

listened.  Waves  of  sound  reached  her  like  the  rolling  of 
the  sea  heard  in  shells.  She  listened  to  the  festal  cries  of 
the  company,  the  laughter,  the  revels,  the  passionate  sighing 
of  the  music,  but  with  it  mingled  the  whistle  and  roar  of 
the  storm. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that,  close  by  her  side,  some  one 
murmured  '  Bellincioni !  Bellincioni ! ' 

She  gave  a  cry,  the  colour  leaving  her  cheeks. 

*  Bellincioni !  Of  course  !  Why  did  I  never  think  of  him 
before?  He  is  the  one  who  will  tell  me  everything.  I  must 
go  to  him  this  minute.  Only  so  that  no  one  shall  notice  me! 
Yet,  truly,  I  care  not  if  I  am  seen.  I  must  know !  I  can 
endure  this  atmosphere  of  deceit  no  longer.' 

She  remembered  that  Bellincioni,  on  the  pretext  of  indis- 
position, had  not  come  to  the  ball.  At  this  hour  he  would  be 
at  home,  and  alone ! 

So  she  called  Ricciardetto,  who  was  at  the  door. 

*  Tell  two  runners,  with  a  litter,  to  await  me  below  at  the 
private  gate.  Despatch.  Only  see,  if  you  desire  my  favour, 
that  the  matter  is  not  known.  Hear  you?  It  must  be 
known  to  none.' 

He  kissed  her  hand  and  set  off  with  the  message. 

Beatrice  threw  on  a  sable  pelisse  and  a  mask  of  black 
velvet.  A  few  minutes  more  and  she  was  in  the  litter,  being 
carried  toward  the  Porta  Ticinese,  where  the  court  poet  had 
his  lodging. 

VII 

Bernardo  Bellincioni  called  his  old  ruinous  house  'the 
lizard's  hole.'  He  was  the  recipient  of  many  munificent 
gifts,  but  his  life  was  irregular;  he  drank,  and  gambled 
away  whatever  he  had,  so  that  'misery,'  as  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  say,  'followed  him  like  a  wife,  unloved  and  faithful.' 

Lying  on  a  broken  couch,  of  which  the  fourth  leg  was 
replaced  by  a  billet  of  wood,  and  the  mattress  thin  as  a 
girdle-cake,  he  was  sipping  his  third  glass  of  sour  wine,  and 
composing  an  epitaph  for  Madonna  Cecilia's  deceased  lapdog. 
Listening  to  the  north  wind,  and  making  gloomy  prognosti- 
cations as  to  the  sort  of  night  he  was  going  to  spend,  he 
watched  the  dying-out  of  the  remnant  of  fire,  and  vainly  tried 
to  warm  his  thin  legs  in  the  moth-eaten  squirrel  cloak,  which 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  189 

he  had  thrown  over  them.  He  had  not  presented  himself  at 
the  court  ball  (where  his  masque,  Paradiso,  was  to  be  per- 
formed) for  other  reasons  than  illness ;  though  indeed  he  had 
been  ill  for  some  while,  and  was  so  lean  that,  as  he  said,  '  in 
his  body  it  were  possible  to  study  the  anatomy  of  the  bones, 
muscles,  and  veins  of  the  human  subject.'  Hnd  he  been 
dying  he  might  still  have  dragged  himself  to  the  festival; 
more  potent  than  illness  was,  however,  jealousy ;  he  preferred 
freezing  in  his  kennel  to  witnessing  the  triumph  of  his  rival, 
that  interloping  and  pretentious  humbug,  Messer  Unico, 
who  had  turned  the  heads  of  all  the  silly  women.  The 
mere  thought  of  Messer  Unico  overflowed  his  heart  with 
black  bile;  he  clenched  his  fist,  gnashed  his  teeth,  and 
jumped  frantically  from  his  bed.  But  the  room  was  so  cold 
that  he  returned  to  its  inadequate  shelter,  coughed,  shivered, 
and  rolled  angrily  from  side  to  side. 

'  The  villains  ! '  he  grumbled ;  '  have  I  not  written  four 
sonnets  in  the  best  rhyme  praying  for  firewood,  and  not  a 
stick  has  come.  I  shall  certainly  be  reduced  to  burning  my 
banisters :  no  one  comes  to  visit  me  save  Jews,  and  if  they 
break  their  necks  so  much  the  better.' 

However,  he  spared  the  banisters.  His  eye  fell  on  the 
makeshift  leg  of  his  bed,  and  he  considered  which  were  the 
more  dangerous,  a  fireless  room  or  an  insecure  sleeping-place. 
The  storm  swept  through  the  room,  blowing  in  at  the  chinks 
and  shrieking  in  the  chimney  like  a  witch.  With  desperate 
decision  Bernardo  tore  away  the  support  of  his  couch, 
chopped  it  up  and  cast  it  on  the  hearth.  The  fire  blazed  up 
anew,  and  he  sat  before  it  on  a  stool,  putting  his  blue  fingers 
to  the  flame,  and  apostrophising  the  last  warm  friend  of  a 
lonely  poet. 

1 A  dog's  life ! '  he  muttered  presently ;  '  and  of  a  truth  I 
merit  these  castigations  less  than  others.  Was  it  not  of  my 
forefather,  the  Florentine,  who  lived  before  the  house  of 
Sforza  had  been  heard  of,  that  the  divine  poet  wrote: — 

"  Bellincion  Berti  vid'  io  andar  cinto 
Di  cuoio  e  d'osso"? 

Good  Lord,  when  I  came  to  Milan  this  herd  of  creeping 
animals  did  not  know  a  sonnet  from  a  stramhotto.  Who  is  it 
has  taught  them  the  elegancies  of  the  new  poetry  ?  Was  it  not 
through  my  facile  fingers   that   the  waters   of  Hippocrene 


i9o  THE  FORERUNNER 

enriched  the  Lombard  plain,  and  even  threatened  an  inun- 
dation ?  And  this  is  my  reward  I  To  lie  like  a  dog  in  a 
kennel !  To  be  neglected  by  all  because,  forsooth,  I  am  poor ! 
A  poet  situated  as  I  am,  is  unknown  as  he  whose  face  is 
hidden  by  a  mask  or  deformed  by  the  smallpox.' 

And  he  recited  certain  lines  from  his  epistle  to  Ludovico, 
the  Duke  :— 

*  I  cry  for  aid  to  every  one, 
But  each  in  turn  replies,  "  Begone ! " 
Ah,  wretched  poet  I  for  his  pains, 
Thou  generous  lord,  what  meed  remains? 
The  very  cap  and  bells  to  him  denied, 
Among  the  beasts  of  burden  harness  thou  his  pride  ! 

And  he  hung  his  bald  head,  smiling  bitterly ;  on  his  stoo 
by  the  fire,  crouching,  and  very  thin,  with  a  long  red  nose, 
he  looked  like  some  melancholy  roosting  bird. 

Presently  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  house-door  below ;  then 
the  sleepy  grumbling  of  the  surly  old  woman  who  was  the 
poet's  sole  attendant ;  and  then  steps  upon  the  brick  floor. 

'What,  the  fiend  !'  wondered  Bellincioni ;  'can  it  be  that 
abominable  Jew  come  again  after  his  money?  The  infidel 
hound  !     Can  he  not  leave  me  in  peace  even  at  night  ? 

The  staircase  creaked,  the  door  opened,  and  into  the 
wretched  room  came  a  woman  in  a  sable  mantle  and  a  black 
velvet  mask.  Astounded  and  staring,  Bernardo  sprang  to  his 
feet.  The  lady,  without  a  word,  was  about  to  seat  herself 
on  a  chair. 

*  For  God's  love,  be  careful,  madam  ! '  cried  the  poet,  '  the 
back  is  broken ! '  Then  in  the  ceremonious  tone  of  a 
courtier  he  added :  '  To  what  good  genius  am  I  indebted  for 
the  happiness  of  seeing  an  illustrious  lady  in  my  poor 
abode?' 

*  Surely/  he  thought,  '  'tis  a  customer  come  to  order  a 
madrigal !  Well,  it  brings  money,  and  that  brings  firewood ! 
Yet  the  hour  is  strange  for  a  lonely  lady  !  'Tis  clear  my  name 
is  not  unknown.  And  if  this  one,  who  knows  how  many 
more  are  my  admirers?1 

With  reviving  spirits  he  threw  the  rest  of  the  wood  on  the 
flame,  which  already  had  begun  to  languish. 
The  fair  unknown  raised  her  mask. 
'It  is  I,  Bernardo.' 
In  his  astonishment  he  staggered  against  the  doorpost. 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  191 

*  Jesus!       Holy    Virgin!       Angels     and     martyrs!'     he 
exclaimed.       '  What  ?      Your    Excellency !       Most     shining 


lady- 

1  Bernardo,  you  can  do  me  a  great  service,'  she  looked 
round  uneasily;  'but  can  any  one  hear  us?  ' 

cBe  at  ease,  madam.  No  one  except  the  rats  and  the 
mice.' 

•  Listen  ! '  said  Beatrice  slowly,  fixing  her  piercing  eyes  on 
his.  'I  am  aware  that  you  have  composed  verses  for 
Madonna  Lucrezia;  doubtless  you  have  kept  the  letter  of 
commission  from  the  Duke.' 

He  turned  pale,  and  observed  her  silently,  consternation 
in  his  eyes. 

'Fear  nothing,'  she  continued;  'no  one  shall  know.  I 
shall  study  how  to  reward  you,  Bernardo.' 

'  Your  Excellency ! '  stammered  the  unlucky  poet,  whose 
tongue  had  lost  its  glibness,  'do  not  believe — nay,  'tis  all 
calumny!  No  letters — before  God,  I  swear  there  are  no 
letters ! ' 

Her  eyes  flashed,  and  her  brows  contracted  in  an  ominous 
frown.  She  rose  and  drew  nearer,  still  fixing  him  with  her 
gaze. 

'Lie  not.  I  know  all.  As  you  value  your  life,  give  me 
the  Duke's  letters.  Give  me  them  !  Hear  you  ?  Bernardo, 
be  careful,  my  servants  are  at  the  door.  Think  you  I  have 
come  to  jest  with  you  ? ' 

He  fell  before  her  on  his  knees. 

'But,  most  illustrious  lady,  I  have  no  letters  !' 

'You  say  you  have  no  letters ? ' 

'None.' 

Fury  overcame  her.  '  Wait  then,  accursed  pander,  till 
I  tear  the  truth  from  your  lips.  Oh,  I'll  wring  confession 
from  you !  I  '11  strangle  you  with  my  own  hands,  you 
rubbish,  you  rogue ! '  she  cried :  in  good  sooth  driving  her 
slender  fingers  into  his  throat  with  such  force  that  the 
veins  swelled  on  his  forehead.  Unresisting,  rolling  his  eyes 
and  hanging  his  hands  helplessly,  he  more  than  ever 
resembled  a  sick  bird. 

'She  is  strangling  me  ! '  thought  Bellincioni ;  'well,  it  can't 
be  helped.     Not  for  so  poor  a  reason  will  I  betray  my  lord  ! ' 

Dissipated  rascal,  and  venal  flatterer  the  poetaster  had 
always  been,  but  never  traitor.     In  his  veins  flowed  better 


i92  THE  FORERUNNER 

blood  than  that  of  the  Sforzas,  and  the  moment  had  come  for 
showing  it. 

The  Duchess,  however,  recovered  herself.  With  a  gesture 
of  disgust  she  flung  him  from  her,  snatched  up  the  little  lamp 
with  its  broken  sides  and  charred  wick,  and  made  for  the 
adjoining  cabinet,  which  she  guessed  to  be  the  poet's  working 
studiolo.  Bernardo,  placing  himself  against  the  door,  barred 
the  entrance.  But  the  haughty  glance  of  the  Duchess  awed 
him,  and  he  withdrew.  She  swept  past  and  entered  the  poor 
refuge  of  his  threadbare  muse.  A  smell  of  mould  came 
from  the  books,  great  patches  of  damp  showed  on  the  plaster 
walls.  The  broken  glass  of  the  frosted  windows  was  repaired 
with  tow.  On  the  sloping  ink-splashed  board  were  quills, 
gnawed  and  twisted  in  the  agony  of  finding  rhymes,  and 
papers,  doubtless  rough  copies  of  poems. 

Heedless  of  the  author,  Beatrice  stood  the  lamp  on  a  shelf 
and  began  to  rummage  among  these  sheets.  She  found 
sonnets  addressed  to  chamberlains,  treasurers,  and  dispensers, 
with  burlesque  complaints  and  prayers  for  firewood,  clothes, 
wine,  and  bread.  In  one  he  asked  of  Messer  Pallavicini 
a  roast  goose  for  the  due  celebration  of  All  Saints'  Day.  In 
another,  headed  '  Del  Moro  a  Cecilia?  the  poet  recounted 
how  Jupiter,  returning  from  his  mistress,  had  been  forced  to 
brave  the  storm  lest  jealous  Juno  should  guess  his  treachery, 
and  tearing  the  diadem  from  her  brow  scatter  its  pearls  like 
hailstones  and  raindrops  from  the  sky. 

Presently  the  search  brought  the  Duchess  to  a  dainty  case 
of  black  wood ;  she  opened  it,  and  saw  a  carefully  tied-up 
packet  of  letters.  Bernardo,  watching  her,  wrung  his  hands 
in  dismay.  The  Duchess  looked  at  him,  then  at  the  letters ; 
read  the  name  of  Lucrezia,  recognised  the  handwriting  of  her 
husband,  and  knew  she  had  found  the  thing  she  sought, 
his  letters — the  rough  draft  of  the  love-verses  he  had  com- 
manded for  Lucrezia.  She  thrust  the  packet  into  the  bosom 
of  her  dress,  flung  a  bag  of  ducats  at  the  poet,  as  one  might 
fling  a  bone  to  a  dog,  and  departed. 

He  heard  her  descend  the  stair,  heard  the  bang  of  the 
door,  and  stood  motionless  in  the  centre  of  the  room  as  if 
thunderstruck,  though  the  floor  seemed  shaking  under  him 
like  the  deck  of  a  ship  in  storm.  At  last,  exhausted,  he  flung 
himself  on  the  three-legged  couch,  and  sank  into  a  deathlike 
slumber. 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  193 

VIII 

The  Duchess  returned  to  the  castle,  where  the  guests  had 
noticed  her  absence  with  surprise,  and  the  Duke  himself 
become  alarmed.  He  met  her  in  the  hall,  and  she  accosted 
him,  her  face  somewhat  blanched,  and  explained  that  having 
felt  fatigued  after  the  banquet  she  had  gone  into  an  inner 
room  to  snatch  some  repose. 

*  Bice ! '  cried  the  Duke,  taking  her  hand,  which  was 
trembling  and  cold,  'you  are  ill!  Tell  me,  for  pity's  sake, 
what  is  the  matter.  Shall  we  put  off  the  second  part  of  this 
entertainment  ?  Dear  one,  did  I  not  arrange  it  solely  to  give 
pleasure  to  thee  ?  ' 

'There  is  nothing  the  matter,'  replied  Beatrice.  'Why 
this  anxiety,  Vico  ?  I  have  not  felt  so  well  this  many  a  day. 
I  wish  to  see  the  Paradiso.     I  intend  to  dance.' 

II  Moro  was  partly  reassured. 

'God  be  thanked,  beloved,'  he  said,  kissing  her  hand. 

The  guests  now  streamed  into  the  Sala  del  giuoco  alia 
palla,  which  had  been  arranged  for  the  representation  of  the 
Paradiso,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  the  court  mechanician. 
When  every  one  was  seated,  and  the  lights  had  been  extin- 
guished, it  was  his  voice  which  cried  '  Ready  ! '  Then  a 
train  of  powder  exploded,  and  crystalline  globes,  like  planets, 
were  seen  disposed  in  a  circle,  filled  with  water,  and 
illumined  by  a  myriad  of  living  fires  sparkling  with  rainbow 
colours. 

'See!'  said  the  lively  Madonna  Ermellina,  pointing  out 
Leonardo  to  her  neighbour ;  '  see  that  face  !  He  is  a  wizard 
capable  of  carrying  away  the  castle  bodily,  as  one  reads  in  the 
romances.' 

'I  mislike  this  playing  with  fire,'  replied  the  other. 
'  Heaven  grant  we  have  not  a  real  fire  presently ! ' 

Presently,  from  a  black  chest  concealed  behind  the  fiery 
globes,  a  white-winged  angel  arose  and  recited  the  prologue. 
At  the  line — 

'  The  great  King  makes  his  spheres  revolve ' — 

he  pointed  to  the  Duke,  as  if  indicating  that  he  governed  his 
people  with  the  same  wisdom  shown  by  the  monarch  of 
heaven  in  turning  his  celestial  spheres.  At  the  same  moment 
the  crystal  globes  began  to  turn  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 

N 


194  THE  FORERUNNER 

low  strange  music,  representing  the  celestial  harmony  told 
of  by  Pythagoras.     Again  the  planets  stood  still;  upon  each 
appeared  its  presiding  deity,  and  each  one  recited  a  hymn  in 
praise  of  Beatrice. 
Mercury  said : — 

'Thou  Nature  s  miracle  !     Diviner  Sun  ! 
Lightning,  by  whom  the  clouds  are  overrun  ! 
Thou  Lamp,  by  whom  the  stars  are  all  outshone  I 
The  pride  and  glory  of  a  future  race  1 

In  that  angelic  figure,  half  concealed, 
The  secret  of  the  higher  world  lies  sealed, 
And  all  of  heaven's  glory  is  revealed 
In  that  fair  face.' 

And  again  Venus,  kneeling  before  the  Duchess,  exclaimed  :— 

'O  Jove  !  whose  justice  never  errs, 
And  at  whose  voice  all  nature  stirs 
And  quickens  to  a  goodly  heritage, 
I  bless  thee  for  thy  coming  unto  earth, 
Since  thus  fair  Beatrice  was  given  birth, 
Whose  fruit  is  nurtured  by  the  Hesperides. 
My  beauty  at  her  feet  in  ashes  lies, 
Despoiled  Venus  none  shall  recognise.' 

And  Diana  prayed  that  she  might  be  given  as  a  slave  to 
Beatrice  the  beauteous,  since  never  had  a  star  like  her 
shone  in  the  heavenly  firmament.  Then  came  the  epilogue, 
in  which  Jove  presented  to  Beatrice  the  three  Hellenic 
graces  and  the  seven  Christian  virtues;  and  the  whole 
Olympus  and  Paradise,  under  the  shadow  of  the  radiant 
angelic  plumes,  and  of  a  cross  gleaming  with  green  lamps, 
symbols  of  hope,  once  more  began  to  revolve,  while  gods  and 
goddesses  sang  hymns  in  praise  of  Beatrice,  accompanied  by 
the  music  of  the  spheres  and  by  the  acclamations  of  the 
spectators. 

'And  why,'  asked  the  Duchess  of  Messer  Gaspare  Visconti 
who  sat  at  her  side ;  '  why  is  there  here  no  jealous  Juno  to 
tear  the  diadem  from  her  brow,  and  to  rain  pearls  upon  the 
earth  in  the  form  of  hailstones  and  raindrops  ?' 

On  hearing  these  words  II  Moro  turned  quickly  and 
looked  at  her.  She  laughed  a  laugh  so  wild  and  forced  that 
the  Duke  felt  ice  fall  round  his  heart;  but  immediately 
Beatrice  composed   herself,  and  turned   the  conversation; 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  195 

Only  she  pressed  the  incriminating  letters  more  closely  to  her 
bosom,  intoxicated  by  the  hope  of  revenge,  strong,  calm, 
almost  gay,  in  her  mood  of  triumph. 

The  masque  ended,  the  guests  passed  into  another  hall 
where  a  new  spectacle  awaited  them.  The  triumphant 
chariots  of  Numa  Pompilius,  Caesar,  Augustus,  and  Trajan 
crossed  the  stage,  drawn  by  negroes,  leopards,  griffons, 
centaurs,  dragons,  and  adorned  with  allegorical  pictures  and 
inscriptions,  which  set  forth  that  all  these  heroes  were  but 
precursors  of  Ludovico  of  Milan.  Then  a  chariot  came 
alone,  drawn  by  unicorns,  and  bearing  an  immense  globe 
representing  the  earth,  upon  which  was  stretched  a  warrior  in 
a  cuirass  of  rusty  iron ;  a  naked  and  gilded  child,  holding  a 
branch  of  mulberry  (moro)  in  his  hand,  issued  from  a  cleft  in 
the  cuirass,  to  signify  the  death  of  the  Age  of  Iron  and  the 
birth  of  the  Age  of  Gold  under  the  sage  rule  of  Ludovico.  To 
the  delight  of  the  spectators  the  Golden  Age  proved  to  be  a 
living  child;  he  was,  however,  in  great  discomfort  from  the 
plaster  of  gold  which  covered  his  little  body,  and  tears  shone 
in  his  frightened  eyes.  In  a  tremulous  and  miserable 
voice  he  whined  a  canzonetta,  praising  the  Duke,  with  the 
monotonous  and  lugubrious  refrain  : — - 

'  Tornera  l'eta  dell'  oro, 
Cantiam  tutti :  "  Viva  il  Moro  ! "  * 

(The  age  of  gold  shall  brighten  as  of  yore, 
And  all  exulting  sing,  •  Long  live  the  Moor.') 

Around  the  chariot  of  the  Golden  Age  the  dancing  was 
renewed,  and  though  no  one  heeded  him  any  longer,  the 
unhappy  golden  child  still  sobbed  out  his  piteous  song  : — 

*  Tornera  l'eta  dell'  oro, 
Cantiam  tutti :  M  Viva  il  Moro  ! "' 

Beatrice  was  dancing  with  Gaspare  Visconti.  At  times  she 
laughed  and  sobbed  hysterically,  and  her  throat  convulsively 
contracted.  With  unsupportable  agony  the  blood  throbbed 
at  her  temples,  and  a  mist  rolled  before  her  eyes ;  yet  her 
face  was  calm,  and  she  even  smiled. 

At  the  dance's  conclusion  she  again  slipped  unnoticed  from 
the  revelling  crowd,  and  sought  seclusion  in  her  private 
apartments. 


196  THE  FORERUNNER 

IX 

She  went  to  the  retired  Torre  delta  Tesoreria,  where  no 
one  ever  came  save  the  Duke  and  herself.  Taking  the 
candle  from  Ricciardetto  and  bidding  him  await  her  at  the 
entrance,  she  passed  into  a  lofty  hall,  dark  and  cold  as  a 
cellar,  sat  down,  drew  forth  the  packet  of  letters  and  was 
about  to  read.  But  suddenly  a  strange  and  eerie  gust  of 
wind  swept  shrieking  round  the  tower,  howled  in  the  chimney, 
invaded  the  room  with  an  icy  breath  almost  extinguishing  the 
candle.  There  was  a  great  hush ;  it  seemed  to  her  she  could 
hear  the  distant  music  of  the  ball,  the  murmur  of  voices, 
the  patter  of  dancing  feet,  the  sound  of  iron  fetters  from 
the  vaults  below,  where  was  the  prison. 

And  at  the  same  moment  she  felt  a  presence  in  the  room 
with  her :  there,  in  the  dark  angle  of  the  wall,  with  eyes 
fixed  upon  hers.  An  anguish  of  terror  seized  her  soul.  She 
felt  she  must  not  move,  must  not  look.  But  it  was  unendur- 
able, and  she  did  look.  He  stood  there,  as  once  she  had 
seen  him  before,  a  long,  long,  black  figure,  blacker  than 
the  investing  darkness,  his  head  bent,  and  shrouded  in  the 
cowl  of  a  monk.  She  tried  to  scream,  to  call  Ricciardetto, 
but  her  voice  failed.  She  rose  to  flee  and  her  legs  refused  to 
support  her ;  she  fell  on  her  knees  groaning  : — 

'Thou?     Again?     And  wherefore?' 

He  raised  his  head  slowly  and  threw  back  the  cowl,  and 
showed  the  visage  of  Gian  Galeazzo  Sforza,  the  murdered 
duke.  The  face  had  nothing  in  it  corpse-like,  nothing 
appalling,  and  he  spoke  gently  and  distinctly : 

*  Poor  thing !     Poor  woman !     Pardon  me ! ' 

He  made  a  step  towards  her,  and  she  felt  a  freezing  and 
unearthly  cold.  She  shrieked,  and  fell  unconscious  to  the 
earth. 

Ricciardetto  heard  the  cry  and  ran  to  her  succour.  When 
he  saw  his  beloved  mistress  stretched  senseless,  he  too 
shrieked,  rushed  away  along  the  dark  galleries,  where  at  long 
intervals  sentries  stood  holding  dim  lanterns,  then  into  the 
crowded  guest-chambers  seeking  the  Duke,  and  crying  wildly: 

'Help!     Help!' 

It  was  midnight,  and  the  revelry  was  at  its  height.  The 
modish  dance  called  '  Fedeli  Amanti'  had  just  begun.  In  it 
lady  and  cavalier  must  pass  under  an  arch  upon  which  stood 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  197 

the  Genius  of  Love  blowing  a  trumpet;  at  its  foot  were 
judges  ;  and  when  true  lovers  approached,  the  Genius  greeted 
them  with  tender  strains,  and  the  judges  smiled  and  applauded 
and  let  them  pass ;  but  the  untrue  were  hindered,  and  the 
trumpet  stunned  them  with  terrible  noise,  the  judges  pelted 
them  with  hail  of  confetti,  and  the  luckless  couple,  loudly 
bemocked,  were  forced  to  turn  and  flee. 

The  Duke,  to  sweetest  strains  like  the  cooing  of  doves,  had 
just  made  his  passage  of  the  arch,  when,  the  crowd  parting  in 
dismay  to  admit  his  approach,  Ricciardetto  hurled  himself 
at  his  master,  still  shrieking  his  wild,  '  Help !     Help ! ' 

Ludovico  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

'  What  is  it  ?     What  has  happened  ? ' 

'  The  Duchess !     She  is  dying !     Help  ! ' 

'The  Duchess  is  ill?  Where?  Speak,  in  the  name  of 
God  ! '  cried  the  Duke. 

\  In  the  Torre  delta  Tesoreria.' 

The  Duke  rushed  from  the  hall,  his  golden  chain  rattling, 
his  hair  flying. 

The  Genius  of  the  arch  of  true  lovers  went  on  blowing  his 
trumpet,  but  now  the  dancers  left  him  and  he  stopped. 
Some  had  followed  the  Duke — in  a  moment  the  whole  brilliant 
throng  had  scattered  like  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep.  The 
arch  was  overthrown  and  trampled,  the  trumpeter  nearly  fell, 
was  hustled,  and  sprained  his  ankle. 

Some  cried  '  Fire  ! ' 

'I  said  it  was  madness  to  play  with  fire,'  wailed  the  lady 
who  had  disapproved  Leonardo's  rotating  planets;  and  others 
fainted. 

1  Calm  yourselves,  ladies.  There  is  no  fire ! '  said  the 
seneschal. 

'Then  what  is  it?' 

'The  Duchess  is  indisposed.' 

'  Nay,  she  is  dying !     She  has  been  poisoned ! ' 

'  Impossible !  Her  Grace  was  here  but  now.  She  was 
dancing ! ' 

'But  don't  you  see?  Isabella  of  Arragon,  to  avenge  her 
lord,  has  with  slow  poison ' 

'OhDio!     Dior 

But  in  the  next  saloon  the  music  continued,  for  there 
nothing  was  known  of  the  disturbance.  The  dance  '  Venus 
and  Zephyr'  was  in  progress,  the  smiling  ladies  leading  their 


198  THE  FORERUNNER 

cavaliers  by  golden  chains,  and  when  these  fell  on  their 
knees  with  lamentable  sighs,  placing  their  feet  upon  their 
necks.  But  a  chamberlain  now  entered,  waving  his  hand  to 
the  musicians. 

'Silence  !     The  Duchess  is  111.* 

There  was  an  instant  hush,  save  for  one  viol  played  by  a 
deaf  and  purblind  old  man,  which  long  continued  to  pour 
forth  its  plaintive  quiverings. 

The  servants  passed  through  the  hall  carrying  a  bed, 
long  and  narrow,  with  hard  stuffing,  and  bars  at  sides  and 
ends,  kept  from  time  immemorial  in  the  wardrobes  of 
the  palace,  and  de  rigucur  for  the  birth  of  the  princes  of 
Milan.  Strange  and  ill-omened  seemed  this  portentous 
couch  in  the  midst  of  the  festivity,  the  lights,  the  crowds 
of  gorgeous  ladies.  They  looked  from  one  to  the  others 
mysteriously. 

1  Tis  from  a  fall  or,  mayhap,  a  fright,'  said  one  of  mature  age. 
1  She  should  have  swallowed  at  once  the  white  of  an  egg  in 
which  were  lengths  of  scarlet  silk,  cut  small.' 

From  the  upper  room,  meantime,  (Ricciardetto  being 
stationed  in  the  adjoining  closet)  came  such  a  terrible  cry, 
that  the  page  seized  the  arm  of  one  of  the  women  who  were 
passing  with  warming-pans,  baskets  of  linen,  and  so  forth, 
and  cried  in  an  agony : — 

1  For  God's  sake,  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  ? ■ 

She  did  not  answer,  and  another,  clearly  the  midwife, 
ordered  him  away. 

1  'Tis  no  place  for  boys,'  she  said  sternly. 

Yet  the  door  was  left  ajar  for  a  moment,  and  looking  into 
the  disordered  room  he  saw  the  suffering  face  of  her  whom 
he  loved  with  his  hopeless  boy's  love,  her  lips  parted  in  a 
continuous  groan, 

He  turned  pale,  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Beside  him  chattered  a  group  of  gossips  each  with  her 
infallible  recipe ;  snake's  skin,  a  bath  in  a  heated  cauldron, 
decoctions  of  cochineal  and  of  stag's  antlers,  the  tying  of  her 
husband's  berretto  round  the  neck  of  the  patient,  and  so 
forth. 

The  Duke  entered  hurriedly  and  sank  upon  a  chair, 
clutching  his  head  with  his  hands  and  weeping  distractedly. 

'Lord  God!  What  torture!'  he  murmured.  fI  cannot 
support  it!    I  cannot!     Ah  Bice!    Bice!      And  'tis  all  my 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  199 

doing !  mine ! '    Still  echoed  in  his  ears  the  furious  cry  with 
which  she  had  greeted  his  approach. 

*  Go  away !     Go  away !     Go  to  your  Lucrezia  ! ' 

One  of  the  busybodies  brought  him  a  pewter  plate  piled 
with  meat. 

'Your  Excellency  will  be  pleased  to  eat  it.' 

*  Good  Lord,  what  are  you  giving  me  ? ' 

'Wolf's  flesh.  'Tis  of  great  benefit  to  the  wife  in  her 
labour,  if  the  husband  will  eat  the  flesh  of  wolves.' 

The  Duke,  submissive  and  self-denying,  did  his  best  to 
swallow  the  repulsive  black  substance,  which  was  so  hard 
as  to  stick  in  his  throat,  and  the  old  woman  gabbled  as  she 
bent  over  him : — 

'  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven, 
Seven  wolves  and  the  mate  of  one, 
Blow  the  wind  from  us  this  even, 
Praise  Thy  name,  the  storm  is  done  ! 
Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  in  the  name  of  the  Trinity,  one  and  eternal. 
Let  the  word  stand  for  ever  !    Amen. ' 

She  was  interrupted  by  Messer  Luigi  Marliani,  the  first  of 
the  court  physicians,  who  came  from  the  sick  room,  followed 
by  his  colleagues. 

*  Well  ?  well  ? '  asked  Ludovico. 

There  was  a  silence ;  then  Messer  Luigi  spoke. 

1  Your  Excellency,  we  have  done  all  that  is  possible.  Now 
we  must  put  our  hope  in  the  clemency  of  the  Lord.' 

'No!  No!'  cried  the  Duke  seizing  his  hand,  'there 
must  be  some  means  !     It  is  unendurable  !     Try  something! ' 

The  physicians  exchanged  glances  like  augurs,  hoping  thus 
to  reassure  him.  Then  Marliani,  knitting  his  brows,  said  in 
Latin  to  the  young  doctor  beside  him : — 

'  Three  ounces  of  river  snails,  with  nutmeg  and  red  coral.' 

'A  bleeding,  perhaps?'  suggested  another,  an  old  man, 
with  a  gentle  and  diffident  face. 

'I  had  thought  of  it,'  said  Marliani;  'but  Mars  is  in 
Cancer  and  in  the  fourth  house  of  the  sun.  And,  further, 
to-day's  date  is  an  uneven  number.' 

The  old  man  sighed,  shook  his  head  and  forbore  to  urge 
his  point.  Various  other  loathsome  medicaments  were  pro- 
posed, till  the  Duke  could  no  longer  contain  himself.  He 
turned  furiously  to  the  doctors. 

'  To  the  devil  with  all  your  science ! '  he  exclaimed ;  '  she 


2oo  THE  FORERUNNER 

is  dying,  do  you  hear  me?  She  is  dying  1  and  you  have 
nothing  better  to  propose  than  three  ounces  of  snails  and 
a  plaster  of  cow's  dung !  Rascals,  charlatans,  fools  !  I  will 
hang  every  one  of  you ! ' 

He  paced  the  room  a  prey  to  mortal  anguish,  listening 
to  the  sufferer's  unceasing  groans.  Suddenly  his  eye  fell  on 
Leonardo  and  he  drew  him  aside. 

'Listen/  he  cried  wildly,  'Leonardo,  you  are  master  of 
great  secrets.  No,  no,  deny  it  not,  I  know.  Ah,  my  God ! 
my  God  ! — that  cry !  What  was  I  saying  ?  Yes,  yes  !  Help 
me,  Leonardo !  Do  something !  I  would  give  my  soul  to 
succour  her — even  for  a  short  space — only  to  still  that  cry ! ' 

Leonardo  would  have  replied ;  but  the  Duke,  forgetting 
that  he  had  appealed  to  him,  hurried  to  meet  the  chaplain 
and  two  monks  entering  at  that  moment — 

'At  last !  God  be  praised.  What  have  you  brought?  Ah! 
a  particle  of  the  remains  of  St.  Ambrose,  the  belt  of  St. 
Margaret — is  she  not  the  patroness  of  women  in  childbed  ? — 
and  a  hair  of  the  Blessed  Virgin !  Ah,  how  I  thank  you ! 
And  surely  your  prayers ' 

Following  the  monks  he  was  entering  the  sick-chamber 
when  the  continual  low  groaning  suddenly  gave  place  to 
shrieks  so  appalling  that,  stopping  his  ears,  he  turned  and 
fled,  passing  through  the  dark  galleries  like  one  possessed. 
He  hurried  to  the  chapel  and  cast  himself  on  his  knees  before 
the  most  revered  picture. 

'Holy  Mother  of  God,'  he  implored  with  clasped  hands 
and  streaming  eyes,  '  I  have  sinned — I  have  sinned  horribly 
— I  have  slain  an  innocent  youth — my  lawful  sovereign. 
O  thou  merciful  Mediatress,  have  mercy  upon  me !  Take 
my  life — take  my  soul ;  but  in  pity,  O  Holy  Mother,  save 
Beatrice ! ' 

Shreds  of  thoughts  and  senseless  fancies  crowded  in  his 
brain  and  stole  his  attention  from  his  prayers.  He  remem- 
bered a  story  of  a  drowning  sailor  who  had  thought  to  buy 
salvation  by  the  promise  of  a  candle  as  big  as  the  mast  of 
a  ship ;  and  when  asked  how  the  wax  for  this  colossus  was 
to  be  provided,  had  answered :  '  Hold  your  tongue ;  our 
present  task  is  to  get  saved,  and  afterwards  we'll  get  the 
Virgin  to  be  content  with  a  smaller  candle.' 

'  Oh  God,  where  are  my  thoughts ! '  cried  the  Duke  be- 
thinking himself.     '  I  must  be  going  mad !      God  help  me !  * 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  201 

And  he  fell  a-praying  with  renewed  fervour ;  but  now  visions 
of  Leonardo's  crystal  globes  tormented  him,  and  the  tiresome 
chant  of  the  gilded  boy — 


1  Tornera  l'eta  dell'  oro, 
Cantiam  tutti,  "  Viva  il  Moro 


1 »» 1 


Then  all  vanished,  and  he  sank  in  a  profound  slumber. 
When  he  awoke  he  fancied  but  two  or  three  minutes  had 
elapsed.  He  left  the  chapel,  and  saw  through  the  frosted 
window-pane  the  grey  light  of  the  winter's  dawn. 


II  Moro  returned  to  the  Sala  della  Rocchetta,  where  reigned 
a  mournful  silence.  A  woman  passing  with  a  basket  of 
swaddling  clothes,  approached  him  and  said. 

'  Her  Excellency  has  been  delivered.' 

1  Does  she  live  ? '  he  stammered,  very  pale. 

*  Yes,  she  lives ;  but  the  infant  is  still-born.  She  is  very 
weak;  and  she  desires  to  speak  with  your  Highness.' 

He  went  to  her  room;  and  there  on  the  pillows  he  saw 
a  small  shrunken  face  like  a  child's,  pallid  and  calm,  with 
great  eyes  surrounded  by  livid  circles,  and  turbid  as  if  a 
spider's  web  were  drawn  over  them;  familiar  and  yet  strange. 
He  bent  over  her  silently. 

'  Send  for  Isabella !     Quickly  ! '  she  gasped. 

He  gave  the  order;  and  presently  the  tall,  young,  graceful 
woman  with  the  proud  sad  look,  the  widow  of  Gian  Galeazzo, 
entered  the  room  and  approached  the  dying  Beatrice.  All 
retired  except  Ludovico  and  the  confessor. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  two  women  whispered  together. 
Then  Isabella  kissed  the  other's  cold  forehead,  knelt  by  the 
bedside  and  prayed,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Beatrice  signed  to  her  husband. 

'Vico,  forgive  me!  Weep  not.  Remember  my  spirit 
will  be  always  with  you.  I  know  it  was  I  only — I  only 
whom ' 

She  could  not  complete  the  sentence,  but  he  understood 
her  meaning. 

4  It  was  I  only  whom  you  loved.'  Slowly  she  turned  her 
eyes  to  him,  eyes  already  darkening,  and  murmured : — 

'One  kiss — on  my  lips.     .     .     .' 


202  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  monk  was  reciting  the  last  prayers  for  the  dying,  anj 
the  attendants,  who  had  re-entered,  responded  in  chorus. 

The  Duke  felt  the  lips  beneath  his  own  turn  cold  and  stiff; 
in  that  long  kiss  she  had  breathed  her  last  faint  sigh. 

'She  is  dead,'  said  Marliani. 

All  knelt,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross.  II  Moro  raised 
himself  very  slowly,  his  face  rigid,  expressive  less  of  grief 
than  of  extreme  tension  of  spirit;  he  breathed  heavily  and 
loud  like  one  toiling  up  the  steep  hillside.  Suddenly  he 
stretched  out  his  arms,  gave  one  wild  cry : — 

1  Bice ! ■  and  fell  senseless  upon  the  corpse. 

Of  the  spectators  Leonardo  alone  had  remained  calm; 
his  clear  searching  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  Duke.  The 
look  of  supreme  suffering  in  a  human  face,  or  its  expression 
in  the  gestures  of  the  body,  was  to  his  eyes  a  rare  and 
beautiful  manifestation  of  nature,  an  exceptional  experience. 
Not  a  wrinkle,  not  the  quivering  of  a  muscle  escaped  his 
passionless  all-seeing  eyes.  Presently,  over-mastered  by  the 
desire  to  draw,  he  slipped  from  the  room  to  fetch  his  sketch- 
book. 

In  the  lower  halls,  whither  the  artist  bent  his  steps,  the 
candles  were  dying  out  in  black  smoke  and  guttering?  of 
wax.  The  chariots  of  Numa  and  Augustus,  and  all  the 
pompous  allegorical  paraphernalia  employed  to  glorify  II 
Moro  and  his  Beatrice,  were  unspeakably  melancholy  and 
wretched  in  the  morning  brilliance.  In  one  room  he  saw 
the  overthrown  and  trampled  Arco  dell  'Amore. 

Standing  by  the  moribund  fire  he  was  beginning  his  sketch, 
when  in  the  chimney-corner  he  noticed  the  boy  who  had 
personified  the  Golden  Age.  He  had  fallen  asleep,  huddled 
up,  his  hands  clutching  his  knees,  his  head  dropped  upon 
them.  The  faint  heat  from  the  dying  embers  had  not  sufficed 
to  warm  the  poor  little  naked  and  gilded  body.  Leonardo 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  but  the  child  did  not  look  up. 
He  moaned  piteously  and  the  artist  took  him  in  his  arms. 
Then  he  opened  frightened  eyes,  blue  as  violets,  and  wailed. 

1  Let  me  go  home !     Let  mc  go  home ! ' 

'What  is  your  name?'  asked  Leonardo. 

'  Lippi.  Let  me  go  home  !  Let  me  go  home !  I  am  sc 
cold.     I  feel  so  sick.' 

His  eyelids  fell  heavily,  and  he  babbled  deliriously.— 

'  Tornera  l'eta  dell'  oro, 
Cantiam  tutti :  "  Viva  il  Moro  I "  • 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  203 

Leonardo  wrapped  the  boy  in  his  own  cloak,  laid  him  in  a 
chair  and  roused  the  servants  in  the  ante-chamber  who  were 
sleeping  off  the  effects  of  their  cups.  He  learned  from  them 
about  the  child :  that  he  was  motherless,  the  son  of  a  tinker 
in  the  Broletto  Novo,  who,  for  twenty  scudi,  had  sold  his 
child  to  the  mumming,  though  warned  that  he  might  die  of 
being  gilded.  Leonardo  returned,  wrapped  the  boy  snugly 
in  his  furs,  and  was  carrying  him  out  of  the  palace  to  the 
nearest  drug  shop  that  the  paint  might  be  removed  from  his 
skin.  Suddenly,  however,  he  paused,  for  he  remembered  the 
drawing  he  had  just  commenced,  and  the  interesting  look  of 
despair  in  Ludovico's  face. 

*  Ah,  well,'  he  thought,  '  I  shall  scarce  forget  it.  The  chief 
thing  is  the  wrinkle  over  the  arched  eyebrows,  and  the  strange 
smile  which  one  might  think  full  of  serenity,  even  of  en- 
thusiasm. The  expression  of  immense  grief  is  like  enough 
to  that  of  immoderate  joy ;  and  truly  Plato  has  said  that  the 
two  emotions,  rising  upon  different  bases,  converge  at  their 
apex.' 

Then  feeling  the  tremble  of  the  frozen  child,  he  added  to 
himself  ironically — 

1  Poor  little  sick  bird — our  Age  of  Gold ! ' 

And  he  pressed  him  with  such  tenderness  to  his  heart  that 
the  little  lad  fancied  his  mother  had  risen  from  her  grave,  and 
was  comforting  him. 

XI 

Beatrice  Sforza  d'Este  died  on  Tuesuay,  the  2nd  of  January 
1497,  at  six  in  the  morning.  The  Duke  remained  by  her 
corpse  for  twenty-four  hours,  refusing  food  and  sleep.  It 
was  feared  his  reason  would  give  way.  On  Thursday  morn- 
ing he  called  for  writing  materials  and  wrote  to  Isabella 
d'Este,  sister  of  the  dead  Duchess,  a  long  letter  breathing 
bitterest  grief. 

1  It  had  been  easier  for  me  to  have  died  myself,'  he  wrote; 
'I  pray  you  send  me  no  condolence  nor  messenger.' 

After  writing  he  was  induced  to  eat  a  little,  not  presenting 
himself  at  table  but  being  served  in  solitude  by  Ricciardetto. 

He  had  proposed  to  leave  the  disposing  of  the  funeral  to 
Bartolomeo  Calco,  his  secretary;  arranging  himself  merely 
the  order  of  the  procession.  But  his  interest  became  aroused, 
and  presently  he  was  planning  details  of  the  ceremonial  with 
the  same  zeal  he  had  shown  in  ordering  the  magnificent 


2o4  THE  FORERUNNER 

festival  of  the  Golden  Age.  He  fixed  the  precise  weight  of 
the  funeral  tapers ;  the  number  of  braccia  of  gold  brocade  and 
of  black  cramoisie  for  the  altar  cloths ;  the  largess  of  small 
coin,  pease,  and  tallow  to  be  distributed  among  the  poor  in 
the  name  of  the  deceased.  Choosing  the  cloth  for  the 
mourning  of  the  court  functionaries,  he  did  not  omit  to 
feel  its  weight  with  his  fingers,  and  to  make  sure  of  its 
quality  by  holding  it  to  the  light.  For  himself  he  ordered 
a  special  mourning  garb  (abito  solenne  di  lutto  profondo) 
having  holes  torn  in  it  to  simulate  the  rendings  of  despairing 
frenzy. 

A  few  days  later  II  Moro  caused  the  tomb  of  the  still- 
born child  to  be  inscribed  with  a  pompous  epitaph  composed 
by  himself,  and  translated  into  Latin  by  Merula. 

*  I,  unhappy  child,  have  perished  before  I  have  seen  the 
light;  more  unhappy  in  that,  dying,  I  have  ravished  life  from 
my  mother — from  my  father  his  consort.  In  this  adverse 
fate  but  one  consolation  remains  to  me;  that  I  was  born 
of  parents  equal  unto  gods.  In  the  year  1497,  the  third  of 
the  Nones  of  January.' 

II  Moro  stood  a  long  time  contemplating  this  inscription, 
cut  in  gold  letters  upon  a  slab  of  black  marble  covering  the 
infant's  grave.  It  was  in  the  Monastery  of  Santa  Maria  delle 
Grazie,  where  Beatrice  also  slept  her  last  sleep.  The  Duke 
shared  the  naive  enthusiasm  of  the  stone-mason,  who  having 
finished  his  work  drew  back  and  admired  it  from  a  distance, 
putting  his  head  on  one  side,  closing  one  eye,  clucking  his 
tongue,  and  murmuring  in  an  ecstasy  of  satisfaction  : — 

4  This  is  no  tomb,  but  a  jewel.' 

One  morning  when  the  snow  on  the  housetops  shone  white 
against  the  rich  blue  of  the  sky,  and  in  the  crystal  air  was 
that  freshness  like  the  fragrance  of  lilies  which  seems  to  be 
the  perfume  of  snow,  Leonardo  da  Vinci  passed  from  the 
sunlit  frost  into  a  dark  close  chamber  hung  with  black 
taffeta,  where  the  shutters  were  rigorously  closed,  and  funeral 
tapers  were  still  alight — the  chamber  of  Ludovico,  who  for 
many  days  had  refused  to  leave  it. 

The  Duke  spoke  of  the  Cenacolo  which  was  to  glorify  the 
place  where  Beatrice  was  laid.     Then  he  said : — 

1  Leonardo,  they  tell  me  you  have  taken  under  your  wing 
that  urchin  who  played  the  Golden  Age  at  our  ill-omened 
feast     What  of  him  ? ' 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  205 

*  He  is  dead,  Most  Illustrious.  He  died  on  the  day  of  Her 
Grace's  funeral.' 

'Died!'  echoed  the  Duke.  cNay,  but  that  is  strange!' 
And  he  dropped  his  head  on  his  hands,  sighing  heavily. 
Then  he  stretched  his  hand  to  Leonardo. 

1  Yes  !  yes  ! '  he  cried ;  ■  'twas  destined  to  fall  out  thus. 
Truly  our  Golden  Age  is  dead ;  dead  together  with  my  in- 
comparable one,  for  it  could  not,  it  should  not,  survive 
her.  Is  it  not  a  truth,  amico  mio,  that  here  we  have  a  strange 
coincidence — theme  for  a  tremendous  allegory  ? ' 

XII 

The  whole  year  was  passed  in  the  deepest  mourning.  The 
Duke  did  not  lay  aside  his  garment  of  woe,  nor  did  he 
present  himself  at  table,  but  ate  off  a  tray  held  before  him  by 
courtiers. 

■  Since  his  lady's  death,'  wrote  the  Venetian  ambassador, 
Marin  Sanuto,  '  II  Moro  has  become  very  devout,  is  present 
at  all  church  ceremonies,  fasts,  and  lives  continently  (so  at 
least  they  say),  and  has  in  his  plans  the  fear  of  God  con- 
stantly before  his  eyes.' 

In  the  daytime  the  Duke  was  able  to  forget  his  bereave- 
ment  in  the  affairs  of  state,  though  even  here  he  felt  the  lack 
of  Beatrice ;  during  the  night  the  intensity  of  his  grief  re- 
doubled. Often  in  dreams  he  saw  her  as  she  had  been 
when  he  had  married  her;  sixteen,  childish  and  wilful, 
slim,  dark;  almost  like  a  boy;  so  untamed  that  sometimes 
she  hid  herself  in  cupboards  to  avoid  assisting  at  state 
ceremonials,  and  for  three  months  after  their  marriage 
defended  herself  with  her  teeth  and  her  nails  from  her 
husband's  caresses.  One  night,  five  days  before  the  first 
anniversary  of  her  death,  he  dreamed  of  her  as  she  had  been 
one  day  long  ago  when  there  had  been  a  fishing  party  on  the 
banks  of  the  lake  in  her  favourite  country  house  of  Cusnago. 
Fish  had  been  plentiful,  and  the  buckets  were  filled  to  the  brim. 
Having  turned  up  her  sleeves,  the  young  Duchess  had  amused 
herself  throwing  the  creatures  by  handfuls  back  into  the 
water,  laughing  and  delighting  in  the  joy  of  the  released 
captives,  in  the  flash  of  their  scales  as  they  plunged  deep 
into  the  clear  water.  The  perch,  the  roach,  the  bream 
wriggled  in  her  bare  hands,  then  catching  the  sun  they  glowed 


206  THE  FORERUNNER 

like  brilliants ;  and  the  smooth  olive  cheek  of  the  beautiful 
girl  glowed  too.  Upon  awaking,  Ludovico  found  his  pillow 
wet  with  tears.  He  rose  and  went  to  the  Convent  delle 
Grazie,  and  prayed  long  at  his  wife's  tomb ;  then  he  dined 
with  the  prior  and  disputed  with  him  upon  the  burning 
theological  question  of  the  hour,  the  Immaculate  Concep- 
tion of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  When  it  grew  dark,  II  Moro  left 
the  monastery,  and  went  straight  to  the  dwelling  of  Madonna 
Lucrezia. 

His  grief  for  his  wife,  his  fear  of  God,  in  no  wise  militated 
against  love  for  his  mistresses.  On  the  contrary,  he  clung  to 
them  more  closely  than  before ;  the  more  so  that  of  late  the 
Countess  Cecilia  and  Madonna  Lucrezia  had  become  bosom 
friends.  Cecilia,  though  a  blue-stocking  or  dotta  eroina,  as  it 
was  then  called,  and  famed  as  the '  new  Sappho,'  was  at  bottom 
a  simple  good-hearted  creature,  somewhat  easily  run  away 
with  by  enthusiasms.  Upon  the  death  of  the  Duchess  she 
found  opportunity  for  one  of  those  exploits  of  love  of  which 
she  had  read  in  romances ;  she  would  make  common  cause 
with  Lucrezia,  her  young  rival,  that  together  they  might  com- 
fort the  duke!  At  first  Lucrezia  was  jealous  and  hard  to 
win,  but  the  magnanimity  of  the  dotta  eroina  finally  disarmed 
her,  and  she  opened  her  heart  to  this  anomaly  in  female 
friendship. 

In  the  summer  Lucrezia  bore  a  son ;  the  Countess  desired 
to  be  his  godmother,  and  though  herself  the  mother  of 
children  by  the  Duke,  lavished  on  the  infant  extravagant 
tendernesses  and  called  herself  his  grandam.  Thus  II  Moro's 
prophetic  dream  had  been  realised,  and  his  mistresses  were 
friends.  To  celebrate  the  auspicious  arrangement,  he  caused 
Bellincioni  to  write  a  sonnet  in  which  Lucrezia  and  Cecilia 
were  figured  as  the  Morning  and  the  Evening  glow;  while 
he,  disconsolate  widower,  stood  between  them. 

This  evening,  entering  the  familiar  luxurious  chamber  of 
the  Palazzo  Crivelli,  he  found  the  ladies  side  by  side  before 
the  fire.  Of  course,  like  the  rest  of  the  court,  they  were 
dressed  in  the  deepest  mourning. 

*  How  is  your  Excellency  in  his  health  ? '  asked  the  Evening 
Glow.  She  was  quite  unlike  her  rival,  but  no  less  attractive, 
with  her  white  skin,  flame-coloured  hair,  and  hazel  eyes  clear 
as  the  water  in  a  mountain  tarn. 

The  Duke  had  complained  of  ill  health  lately,  and  though 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  207 

this  evening  he  felt  rather  better  than  usual,  languidly 
answered,  from  force  of  habit : — 

1  Ah,  madam,  you  can  easily  conceive  to  what  condition  I 
am  reduced.  My  mind  is  occupied  but  with  one  subject, 
how  soonest  I  may  be  laid  to  rest  beside  my  dove.' 

'Nay,  nay,  your  Excellency  must  not  speak  so!'  said 
Cecilia  with  deprecating  hands.  c  Think,  if  Madonna 
Beatrice  could  hear  you !  All  sorrow  comes  from  God, 
and  must  be  accepted  even  with  thankfulness.' 

'  You  speak  well,'  replied  II  Moro,  '  I  would  not  murmur. 
Nay,  then,  God  forbid !  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for 
they  shall  be  comforted.' 

And  he  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  pressing  closely  the 
hands  of  the  two  ladies. 

'  May  the  Lord  reward  you,  my  dear  ones,  that  you  have 
not  abandoned  the  poor  widowed  one  ! ' 

He  wiped  his  eyes,  and  then  drew  two  papers  from  the 
pocket  of  his  mourning  attire.  One  was  a  deed  of  gift  by 
which  he  gave  the  rich  lands  of  the  Villa  Sforzesca  to  the 
Monastery  delle  Grazie. 

'But,' said  the  Countess,  astonished,  *I  had  thought  your 
Highness  adored  this  villa.' 

'My  love  for  terrestrial  things  is  dead.  And,  madam, 
what  need  has  one  man  with  lands  so  large?' 

Cecilia  laid  her  rosy  fingers  on  his  lips  with  sympathetic 
reproach.    Then  she  asked  curiously: — 

'And  this  other  paper,  what  is  it?' 

At  this  his  face  cleared,  and  the  old,  gay,  somewhat  cunning 
smile  appeared  on  his  lips. 

He  read  the  second  document  aloud,  also  a  deed  of  gift, 
with  recital  of  the  lands,  woods,  hamlets,  hunting  rights,  and 
other  advantages  which  he,  Ludovico,  Duke  of  Milan,  was 
conferring  on  Madonna  Lucrezia  Crivelli  and  his  natural  son 
Giampaolo.  With  the  rest  was  included  the  villa  of  Cusnago, 
Beatrice's  favourite  country  house,  renowned  for  its  fisheries. 

The  last  words  of  the  document  Ludovico  read  in  trem- 
bling tones : — 

'  In  the  wondrous  and  rare  bonds  of  great  love,  this  lady  has 
showed  unto  us  entire  devotion  and  displayed  such  loftiness 
of  sentiment  that  often  in  our  intercourse  with  her  we  have 
experienced  an  entrancing  and  exceptional  delight,  added  to 
great  lightening  of  our  cares/ 


io8  THE  FORERUNNER 

Cecilia  clapped  her  hands  and  fell  on  her  friend's  neck, 
her  eyes  wet  with  maternal  tenderness. 

'  Did  I  not  tell  you,  my  sweet  sister,  that  he  had  a  heart 
of  gold  ?  Now  my  little  grandson,  Giampaolo,  has  the  richest 
inheritance  in  Milan.' 

1  What  date  have  we  ? '  asked  II  Moro. 

"Tis  the  28th  of  December,'  replied  Cecilia. 

'The  28th  ! '  he  echoed  pensively. 

It  was  the  day,  the  hour,  when  a  year  ago  Beatrice  had 
surprised  her  husband  with  his  mistress.  The  room  was 
unchanged ;  the  same  winter  wind  howled  in  the  chimney ; 
the  bright  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  and  above  it  danced  the 
chain  of  naked  cupids  or  cherubs.  On  the  round  table  with 
the  green  covering  stood  the  same  crystal  goblet  of  Balnea 
aponitana;  the  same  mandoline,  the  same  sheets  of  music 
littered  the  floor.  The  doors  opened  into  the  bedroom,  and 
there  was  the  wardrobe  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge. 

What  would  he  not  give,  so  he  thought,  if  he  might  at  this 
moment  hear  the  rap  of  the  knocker  on  the  great  door,  if 
the  frightened  maid  should  run  in  with  the  cry,  'Madonna 
Beatrice ! '  Yes,  he  would  gladly  once  again  tremble  in  the 
wardrobe  like  a  caught  thief,  hearing  in  the  distance  the  in- 
dignant voice  of  the  lady  of  his  love.  Alas !  it  could  not  be, 
that  time  had  gone  by  for  ever !  His  head  sank  and  tears 
filled  his  eyes. 

'Oh,  Santo  IddioV  said  Cecilia,  turning  to  her  friend, 
'he  weeps  anew.  Rouse  yourself!  Coax,  comfort  him! 
Console  him  !     How  can  you  be  so  cold  ? ' 

And  gently  she  pushed  her  rival  into  the  Duke's  arms. 

Lucrezia  had  long  felt  sickened  by  this  unnatural  friendship. 
She  would  have  liked  to  get  up  and  go  away ;  nevertheless 
she  took  the  Duke's  hand.  He  smiled  at  her  through  his 
tears  and  laid  it  upon  his  heart. 

Cecilia  took  the  mandoline,  and,  assuming  the  pose  in 
which  twelve  years  ago  Leonardo  had  painted  her,  sang  one 
of  Petrarch's  lyrics  for  Laura  :— 

'  Levommi  il  mio  pensiero  in  parte  ov'  era 
Quella  ch'io  cerco  e  non  ritrovo  in  terra.' 

The  Duke,  much  moved,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  stretching 
out  his  hands  as  to  a  dissolving  vision,  he  repeated  the 

last  line : — 

'  E  compie'  mia  giornata  innanzi  sera.' 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD— 1496-1497  209 

'Ah,  yes,  my  dove,  thou  didst  indeed  finish  thy  day  before 
the  evening  !  .  .  .  Ladies,  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  as  if  she 
smiled  upon  us  three  from  heaven.  Ah,  Bice,  Bice,  tnia 
adorata  ! ' 

He  drew  Lucrezia  to  him,  and  presently  Cecilia  rose  and 
left  them  together.  The  'Evening  Glow'  was  not  jealous 
of  the  '  Dawn ' ;  from  long  experience  she  knew  that  soon 
again  her  turn  would  come.  Her  mandoline  sounded  from 
the  next  room. 

And  above  the  merry  firelight,  the  naked  cupids  of 
Caradosso's  moulding  prolonged  their  eternal  dance,  laugh- 
ing madly  around  the  nails,  the  lance,  the  crown  of  thorns. 


BOOK    IX 

THE   SIMILITUDES — I498-I499 

•7 ' sensi  sono  terrestri,  la  ragione  slafuor  di  quelli,  quando eontempla? 

Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(The  Senses  belong  to  earth  t  Reason,  when  she  contemplates,  stands 
outside  them.) 

Oupavbt  &vo)  oiipavbt  k&tw.' 

(Heaven  above — heaven  below.) 

Tabula  Smaragdina. 


1  See  here !  On  the  map  of  the  Indian  Ocean,  westward  of 
the  island  of  Taprobane,  we  find  a  note — "  The  Sirens : 
prodigies  of  the  sea."  Christopher  Columbus  told  me  that 
having  come  there  and  found  no  sirens,  he  was  greatly 
astonished.     But  you  smile.     Why?' 

*  Oh,  nothing !  Go  on,  Guido ;  I  am  listening.' 
'  I  know  very  well,  Messer  Leonardo,  that  you  don't 
believe  in  sirens !  Well,  and  what  would  you  say  of  the 
skiapodes,  who  use  their  feet  as  parasols;  or  the  pygmies, 
whose  ears  are  so  large  that  they  make  one  a  bolster,  the 
other  a  blanket;  or  of  the  tree  which  bears  eggs  for  its 
fruit,  from  which  come  yellow  downy  chickens,  so  fishy- 
flavoured  they  may  be  eaten  on  fast-days ;  or  of  that  marine 
monster  upon  which  certain  mariners,  believing  it  an  island, 
disembarked  and  lighted  a  fire  for  the  cooking  of  their 
supper?  This  last  is  a  very  true  tale,  related  by  an  aged 
mariner  from  Lisbon,  a  man  in  no  wise  given  to  wine,  and 
who  swore  and  swore  again  by  the  blood  and  the  body  of 
Christ,  that  he  spoke  what  was  true.' 
This  conversation  took  place  six  years  after  the  discovery 
sio 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  211 

of  the  New  World,  on  Palm  Sunday,  at  Florence,  in  a  room 
above  the  storehouse  of  Messer  Pompeo  Berardi,  a  ship- 
builder, who  had  a  branch  establishment  at  Seville,  and 
superintended  there  the  building  of  ships  for  sailing  to  the 
New  Continent.  Messer  Guido  Berardi,  Pompeo's  nephew, 
was  an  impassioned  seaman ;  he  had  prepared  to  take  part  in 
Vasco  di  Gama's  expedition,  when  he  was  stricken  by  the 
terrible  disease  called  French  by  the  Italians,  and  Italian  by 
the  French ;  German  by  the  Poles,  Polish  by  the  Muscovites, 
Christian  by  the  Turks.  In  vain  he  had  consulted  all 
physicians,  in  vain  he  had  made  waxen  offerings  at  every 
wonder-working  shrine;  paralysed,  condemned  to  eternal 
immobility,  he  preserved  an  extraordinary  activity  of  mind, 
and  by  listening  to  sailors'  stories,  and  sitting  up  all  night 
over  books  and  maps,  he  sailed  the  oceans  of  imagination, 
and  made  discoveries  by  proxy.  His  room,  which  sextants, 
compasses,  astrolabes,  made  like  a  ship's  cabin,  opened  on  to 
a  balcony,  a  Florentine  loggia.  The  clear  sky  of  a  spring 
evening  was  already  darkening;  the  flame  of  the  lamp 
flickered  in  the  wind;  from  the  store-house  below  were 
wafted  odours  of  spices — cinnamon,  ginger,  nutmeg  and 
cloves. 

'And  so,  Messer  Leonardo,'  he  concluded,  rubbing  his 
unhappy  legs  under  their  coverlet,  '  'tis  not  meaningless  the 
saying  that  faith  removes  mountains.  Had  Columbus 
doubted  like  you,  he  had  accomplished  naught.  Confess, 
I  pray  you,  is  it  not  worth  grey  hair  at  thirty  to  have  found 
the  Earthly  Paradise  ? ' 

'  Paradise? '  said  Leonardo ;  '  nay,  how  is  that?' 

1  What  ?  Have  you  not  heard  ?  Know  you  not  that  by 
observations  on  the  Pole  Star,  taken  by  Messer  Cristoforo 
near  the  Azores,  he  has  proved  that  the  world  has  not  the 
shape  of  an  apple,  as  is  commonly  supposed.  'Tis  a  pear, 
with  a  protuberance  like  the  nipple  of  a  woman's  breast. 
On  this  nipple,  a  mountain  so  high  that  its  summit  leans 
against  the  lunar  sphere,  lies  the  Earthly  Paradise.' 

1  But,  caro  Guido,  science  .  .  .' 

1  Science  ! '  cried  the  other  contemptuously.  '  Know  you, 
Messere,  what  Columbus  says  of  science?  I  will  quote  you 
his  words  in  his  Libro  de  las  Profecias.  He  says :  "  Not 
mathematics,  nor  the  charts  of  geographers,  nor  the  argu- 
ments of  reason,  helped  me  to  my  deed,  but  solely   the 


212  THE  FORERUNNER 

prophecy  of  Isaiah  touching  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth. " ' 

Here  Guido  fell  silent,  for  at  this  hour  began  the  nightly- 
racking  of  his  joints.  He  was  carried  to  his  bed;  and 
Leonardo,  left  alone,  entertained  himself  verifying  those 
observations  upon  the  Pole  Star  which  had  led  to  so  singular 
a  delusion ;  and,  in  truth,  he  found  errors  so  gross  that  he 
could  not  believe  his  eyes. 

'  What  ignorance ! '  he  said  to  himself  more  than  once ;  '  it 
would  seem  he  has  discovered  the  New  World  by  chance, 
groping  at  random.  He  himself  sees  no  more  than  a  blind 
man,  nor  doth  he  know  what  it  is  he  has  discovered;  he 
thinks  it  is  China  or  Solomon's  Ophir ;  or,  by  my  faith,  the 
Earthly  Paradise!  Death  will  overtake  him  before  he  has 
learned  the  truth.7 

He  read  the  first  letter,  dated  April  29th  1493,  in  which 
Columbus  informed  Europe  of  his  discovery :  ■  the  letter  of 
Christopher  Columbus,  to  whom  our  age  oweth  much  touching 
the  newly-found  islands  beyond  the  Ganges.' 

Leonardo  spent  the  whole  night  over  the  calculations  and 
the  maps.  At  times  he  went  out  upon  the  loggia  and  looked  at 
the  stars,  thinking  of  this  finder  of  the  new  heaven  and  the 
new  earth — that  strange  dreamer  with  the  mind,  and  the  heart, 
of  a  child.  Involuntarily  he  compared  this  man's  destiny  with 
his  own. 

'  How  little  he  knew ;  how  much  he  did  !  And  I,  with  all 
my  knowledge,  am  helpless  as  the  paralysed  Berardi.  I,  too, 
have  aimed  at  unknown  worlds,  but  have  made  no  step 
towards  them.  Faith,  say  they,  faith !  But  is  not  perfect 
faith  the  same  as  perfect  knowledge?  Cannot  these  eyes  of 
mine  see  farther  than  those  eyes  of  Columbus,  the  blind 
prophet  ?  Or  is  it  the  caprice  of  Fate  that  men  must  see  to 
know ;  must  be  blind  to  act  ? ' 


II 

Leonardo  did  not  notice  that  the  night  was  passing.  The 
stars  went  out  one  by  one ;  rosy  light  overspread  the  sky  and 
shone  upon  the  tiled  roofs  and  the  wooden  cross-beams  of 
the  old  brick  houses ;  the  street  became  gay  with  the  hum  of 
the  people  going  forth  to  their  daily  toil.     Presently  a  knock 


THE  SIMILITUDES- 1498-1499  213 

came  to  the  door,  and  Giovanni  Boltraffio  entered,  to  remind 
his  master  that  this  was  the  day  for  the  '  Trial  by  fire.' 

4  What  trial?'  asked  Leonardo. 

'Fra  Domenico  on  behalf  of  Fra  Girolamo,  and  Fra 
Giuliano  Rondinelli  on  behalf  of  his  enemies,  will  pass 
through  the  fire.  That  one  who  is  unhurt  will  be  proved  by 
God  to  be  in  the  right.' 

'Very  good;  you  can  go,  Giovanni,  and  I  wish  you  good 
entertainment.' 

1  Will  you  not  come  also,  Master?' 

'No.     I  am  busy.' 

Giovanni  took  a  step  towards  the  door;  then,  trying  to 
appear  indifferent,  he  said : — 

4 1  am  sorry  you  are  so  occupied.  As  I  came  hither  I  met 
Messer  Paolo  Somenzi,  who  promised  to  bring  us  to  a  place 
where  we  could  see  excellently.  The  trial  is  not  till  mid-day. 
If  you  could  finish  your  work  by  then,  we  might  yet  be  in 
time.' 

Leonardo  smiled.  'You  want  me  so  much  to  see  the 
prodigy?     Very  well,  then;  we'll  go  together.' 

At  the  appointed  time  Messer  Paolo  Somenzi  arrived.  He 
was  a  spy  in  the  pay  of  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  a  bitter  enemy 
of  Savonarola's:  a  restless,  fussy  little  man,  with  brains 
of  quicksilver. 

'How  is  this,  Messer  Leonardo?'  he  began  in  a  harsh 
disagreeable  voice,  with  much  gesticulation.  '  You  thought 
of  refusing  your  presence?  Has  this  physical  experiment  no 
attraction  for  the  devotee  of  natural  science?' 

'  But  will  the  magistrates  really  permit  them  to  go  into  the 
fire?'  asked  Leonardo. 

'  Chi  lo  sa  ?  But  one  thing  is  certain,  that  Fra  Domenico 
will  not  shrink  from  the  flames.  Nor  is  he  the  only  one ! 
More  than  two  thousand  of  the  citizens,  rich  and  poor,  wise 
and  simple,  women  and  children,  declared  last  night  at  the 
Convent  of  San  Marco  that  they  were  ready  to  follow  Fra 
Domenico  to  this  singular  test.  I  tell  you  there  is  such  a 
frenzy  abroad  that  the  most  sensible  feel  their  heads  go 
round.  The  very  philosophers  are  taking  fright,  and  asking 
themselves  if  there  is  not  a  chance  of  neither  champion  being 
burned.  But  for  my  part,  I  am  wondering  how  the  Piagnoni 
will  look  when,  on  the  contrary,  the  two  poor  fools  are  slain 
before  their  eyes ! ' 


ai4  THE  FORERUNNER 

'  Does  Savonarola  really  believe  ? '  exclaimed  Leonardo, 
as  if  thinking  aloud. 

'  I  suspect  he  has  his  doubts  and  would  fain  draw  back. 
But  'tis  too  late.  To  his  own  hurt  he  has  so  debauched  the 
imagination  of  this  people  that  now  they  require  a  miracle  at 
all  costs.  See  you,  Messere,  'tis  a  pure  question  of  mathe- 
matics, and  of  a  kind  no  less  interesting  than  yours :  if  God 
really  exist,  why  should  he  not  do  a  miracle — why  should  he 
not  cause  two  and  two  to  make  five?  as,  verily,  the  faithful 
daily  request,  that  the  impious  like  you  and  me,  Messer 
Leonardo,  may  be  put  to  eternal  confusion.' 

'  Well,  let  us  set  forth,'  said  Leonardo,  interrupting  Messer 
Paolo  with  ill-concealed  aversion. 

'Soft,  though,'  said  the  other;  'one  little  whisper  more. 
You  and  I,  Messer  Leonardo,  are  of  one  mind  in  this  matter ; 
and  at  the  day's  end  we  shall  cry  "Victory !"  whether  God  exist 
or  no.  Two  and  two  will  always  make  four.  Viva  la  Scienza  I 
and  long  live  logic  ! ' 

The  streets  were  crowded,  and  on  all  faces  was  that  air  of 
curiosity  and  happy  expectation  which  Leonardo  had  already 
remarked  in  Giovanni.  The  press  was  greatest  in  the  Via  de' 
Calzaioli  before  the  Orsanmichele,  where  was  a  bronze  statue 
by  Andrea  Verrocchio: — the  apostle  Thomas  thrusting  his 
fingers  into  the  wounds  of  his  Lord.  Here  the  eight  theses, 
the  truth  or  falsity  of  which  was  to  be  demonstrated  by  the 
fire,  were  appended  to  the  wall,  'writ  large'  in  vermilion 
letters.  Some  of  the  crowd  were  spelling  them  out,  others 
listening  and  making  their  comments 

I.  The  Church  of  the  Lord  needs  to  be  born  again. 

II.  God  will  chastise  her. 

III.  God  will  transform  her. 

IV.  After  the  chastisement,  Florence  also  shall  be  renewed 

and  shall  rise  above  all  peoples. 
V.    The  infidels  shall  be  converted. 
VI.    All  this  shall  happen  forthwith. 

VII.   The  excommunication  of  Savonarola  by  Pope  Alex- 
ander vl  is  invalid. 
VIII.    He  committeth  no  sin  who  holds  this  excommuni- 
cation invalid. 

Jostled  by  the  crowd,  Leonardo  and  his  companions  stopped 
to  listen  to  the  remarks  of  the  people. 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  215 

'  It  is  all  gospel  truth,'  said  an  old  artisan ;  '  nevertheless 
deadly  sin  may  come  of  it.' 

'  What  sin  is  stinking  in  your  old  nostrils,  Filippo?  '  asked 
a  lad,  smiling  contemptuously. 

1  There  can  be  no  sin  in  it,'  said  another. 

'  It 's  a  trap  of  the  Evil  One,'  said  Filippo  undaunted. 
'  We  are  demanding  a  miracle.  But  we  may  be  unworthy  of 
a  miracle.  Is  it  not  written  in  Scripture,  "  Thou  shalt  not 
tempt  the  Lord  thy  God  ?  " ' 

1  Hold  your  tongue,  old  man !  Is  not  a  mustard-seed  of 
faith  able  to  raise  mountains  ?  God  cannot  avoid  a  miracle 
once  we  have  faith.' 

1  No !     He  can't !     He  can't ! '  cried  many  voices. 

'  But  who  is  to  go  into  the  fire  first  ?  Fra  Domenico  or 
Fra  Girolamo  ? ' 

'  The  two  together.' 

1  No,  Fra  Girolamo  will  only  pray.     He  is  not  going  in.' 

1  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  'Twill  be 
first  Fra  Domenico,  then  Fra  Girolamo,  and  then  all  of  us 
who  wrote  ourselves  down  last  night  at  the  convent.' 

Is  it  true  that  Fra  Girolamo  is  going  to  raise  a  dead 
man?' 

'  Of  course  it  is  true  !  First  the  trial  by  fire,  and  then  the 
resurrection  of  the  dead.  I,  myself,  have  seen  his  letter  to 
the  pope.  He  challenges  him  to  send  a  man  who  shall 
descend  into  a  tomb  with  Fra  Girolamo,  and  say  to  the  dead, 
"  Come  forth !  "  He  who  shall  resuscitate  the  corpse  shall  be 
the  true  prophet ;  and  the  other  the  deceiver.' 

1  Have  faith,  brothers,  only  have  faith  !  Many  miracles 
await  you.  Ye  shall  see  the  Son  of  Man  in  his  flesh  and 
bones  coming  on  the  clouds,  and  other  wonders,  of  which 
ancient  times  had  not  even  the  conception  ! ' 

At  these  words  several  cried  '  Amen ' ;  and  all  faces  grew 
pale,  and  all  eyes  burned  with  the  wild  fires  of  fanaticism. 
The  crowd  moved  on,  carrying  Messer  Paolo  and  the  others 
with  it.  Giovanni  threw  one  more  look  at  Verrocchio's 
bronze  figure.  In  the  good-humoured,  half-contemptuous 
smile  of  the  incredulous  apostle,  he  seemed  to  see  the  smile 
of  Leonardo. 


2i6  THE  FORERUNNER 

III 

As  they  approached  the  Piazza  della  Signoria,  the  press 
was  so  great  that  Paolo  requested  one  of  the  mounted  guards 
to  escort  them  as  far  as  the  balcony,  where  places  were 
reserved  for  the  orators,  and  for  the  more  important  of  the 
citizens. 

Never,  thought  Giovanni,  had  he  seen  so  great  a  multitude. 
Not  only  was  the  square  packed  with  spectators,  but  the 
loggias,  the  towers,  windows,  and  roofs  of  the  houses.  Like 
limpets,  they  clung  to  the  iron  lamp-brackets,  gratings, 
gutters,  eaves,  rain-pipes.  They  hustled  each  other  and 
fought  for  room,  and  some  fell  and  were  trampled  out  of  life. 
All  the  approaches  to  the  piazza  were  rigorously  barred  with 
iron  posts  and  chains ;  at  three  places  only,  men  of  full  age 
and  unarmed  were  permitted  to  pass  singly. 

Messer  Paolo  explained  to  his  companions  the  manner  in 
which  the  pyre  was  constructed.  There  were  two  long  narrow 
piles  of  wood  smeared  with  tar  and  sprinkled  with  powder, 
which  extended  from  the  Ringhiera  or  rostrum,  where  stood  the 
Marzocco  (the  ancient  lion  of  Florence),  as  far  as  to  the  Tettoia 
de'  Pisani.  Between  the  two  piles  was  a  narrow  lane,  paved 
with  stones,  sand,  and  clay,  along  which  the  two  friars  were 
to  pass. 

At  the  appointed  hour  the  Franciscans  appeared  from  one 
side,  the  Dominicans  from  the  other;  the  procession  was 
closed  by  Fra  Domenico,  in  a  velvet  habit  of  brilliant  red, 
and  Fra  Girolamo  dressed  in  white,  and  bearing  the  Ostensorio, 
which  glittered  in  the  sunlight.  The  Dominicans  intoned  a 
Psalm : — 

'Come  and  see  the  works  of  God,  he  is  terrible  in  his 
doing  toward  the  children  of  men  ! ' 

And  the  crowd  responded,  '  Hosanna,  Hosanna  !  Blessed 
is  he  who  cometh  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  V 

The  enemies  of  Savonarola  occupied  half  the  Loggia  dei 
Lanzi,  his  followers  the  opposite  half,  a  partition  having  been 
erected  between  them.  All  was  now  ready ;  nothing 
remained  but  to  light  the  fire  and  call  forth  the  champions. 

At  last  the  judges  of  the  trial  came  from  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  and  every  one  held  his  breath  and  watched  what 
they  would  do ;  but  after  speaking  a  few  words  in  a  low  voice 
with  Fra  Domenico  they  retired  again,  and  suspense  reigned  as 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  217 

before.  Fra  Giuliano  Rondinelli  had  gone  out  of  sight.  Then 
the  tension  of  spirit  became  almost  insupportable,  and  the 
crowd  stood  on  tiptoe,  and  craned  their  necks,  making  the  sign 
of  the  cross  and  telling  their  beads,  and  murmuring  childish 
prayers  :  '  Lord,  Lord  !  perform  us  a  miracle  ! ' 

The  air  was  sultry;  a  thunderstorm  was  drawing  nearer, 
and  growls  of  thunder  which  had  been  heard  at  intervals  all 
day,  were  becoming  louder  and  more  insistent.  Certain 
members  of  the  council,  in  long  robes  of  red  cloth,  like  the 
togas  of  ancient  Rome,  issued  from  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  and 
took  places  on  the  Ringhiera;  an  old  man  with  spectacles 
and  a  quill  behind  his  ear,  evidently  the  clerk,  tried  to  recall 
them  with  shouts  of: — 

*  Messeri !  Messeri !  the  sitting  is  not  ended !  the  voting 
is  in  progress  ! ' 

'To  the  devil  with  the  voting,'  said  one  of  the  magistrates  ; 
'I  have  had  my  fill  of  this  stupid  discussion.  The  noise 
has  broken  my  ear-drum.' 

'What  is  the  use  of  deliberation?'  said  another.  'If  they 
wish  to  burn  themselves  let  them  do  it,  and  Good-night  to 
them !  » 

'  By  my  troth,  it  were  homicide  ! ' 

'And  an  excellent  homicide,  too!  Two  fools  less  on 
earth.' 

1  But  they  must  be  burned  according  to  the  rule  and  canon 
of  the  Holy  Church.     It's  a  delicate  theological  question.' 

'Well,  then,  propose  the  question  to  the  pope.' 

1  What  have  we  to  do  with  the  pope  ?  We  are  concerned 
with  the  people.  If  by  such  means  one  could  restore  the 
people  to  sanity,  there  would  be  no  great  evil  in  sending  all 
the  priests  and  friars  in  the  world,  not  only  into  the  fire,  but 
into  the  water  and  under  the  ground  likewise.' 

'  Water  will  serve.  Throw  them  both  into  a  tub  of  water, 
and  let  him  who  comes  forth  dry  be  the  victor.  'Twould  be 
a  thought  less  dangerous  than  these  pranks.' 

1  Have  you  heard,  most  honourable  signiors,'  said  Messer 
Paolo  with  deep  reverences,  'that  poor  Fra  Giuliano  has 
fallen  sick  in  his  stomach  ?  'Tis  a  malady  caused  by  fear, 
and  he  has  been  bled  for  it.' 

'Sir,'  exclaimed  an  old  man  of  imposing  aspect,  his  face 
showing  at  once  distress  and  intelligence,  '  you  make  a  jest  of 
everything.      But  I,  when  I  hear  such  talk  from  the  men 


218  THE  FORERUNNER 

highest  in  the  state,  I  ask  myself  whether  it  were  not  better 
to  die.  Truly,  if  the  founders  of  this  city  could  rise  from  the 
dead  and  see  the  folly  and  the  infamy  of  this  day's  pro- 
ceedings, they  would  flee  back  into  their  graves  for  shame.' 

The  judges,  meanwhile,  came  and  went  incessantly  from  the 
Loggia  to  the  Palazzo,  from  the  Palazzo  to  the  Loggia,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  deliberations  were  to  have  no  end. 

The  Franciscans  first  accused  Savonarola  of  having 
enchanted  Fra  Domenico's  habit;  he  therefore  removed  it, 
but  it  was  alleged  that  sorcery  might  have  influenced  his 
under  garments.  He  retired  into  the  Palazzo  Vecchio, 
stripped  himself  naked,  and  donned  the  vesture  of  another. 
Then  the  Franciscans  demanded  that  he  should  hold  aloof 
from  Savonarola,  lest  his  new  garments  should  be  enchanted; 
and  that  he  should  give  up  the  cross  which  he  held.  To  this 
Domenico  consented,  but  protested  that  he  would  not  enter 
the  flames  without  the  Holy  Sacrament  in  his  hands.  The 
Franciscans  at  this  swore  that  Savonarola's  disciple  wished 
sacrilegiously  to  burn  the  body  and  blood  of  Christ.  In 
vain  Domenico  and  Girolamo  replied  that  the  Holy  Sacra- 
ment could  not  be  reduced  to  ashes ;  the  material  part  (modus) 
might  indeed  be  burned,  but  not  the  eternal  and  incorruptible 
part  {substantia).  An  interminable  scholastic  dispute  now 
began  between  the  two  parties. 

The  crowd  in  the  piazza  was  beginning  to  murmur,  and 
dense  black  clouds  were  spreading  over  the  sky.  Suddenly 
from  behind  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  and  the  Via  de'  Leoni 
where  the  lions  of  Florence  were  kept  in  cages,  a  prolonged 
and  hungry  roar  was  heard.  The  mob  imagined  that  the 
bronze  Marzocco,  indignant  with  his  city,  was  roaring  out  his 
wrath.  They  responded  with  a  sound  no  less  furious,  no  less 
hungry. 

1  Have  done !  Have  done !  To  the  fire  at  once  !  Fra 
Girolamo !  We  will  have  the  miracle !  We  will  have  the 
miracle !  \ 

At  this  cry  Savonarola,  who  had  been  kneeling  in  prayer, 
rose,  shook  himself,  approached  the  parapet  of  the  Loggia, 
and  with  imposing  gesture  commanded  silence.  But  the 
people  refused  to  be  silent.  And  then  some  one  from  under 
the  Tettoia  de'  Pisani  cried : — 

' He's  afraid  !' 

And  this  cry  was  taken  up  and  passed  along. 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  219 

A  company  of  horsemen  of  the  Arrabbiati  tried  to  push 
their  way  to  the  Loggia  to  fall  upon  Savonarola  and  seize 
him,  making  their  profit  of  the  confusion. 

'  Kill  him  !  Kill  him !  Down  with  the  cursed  schismatic !' 
was  the  shout. 

Boltraffio  closed  his  eyes  that  he  might  not  see  those 
furious  faces  which  had  now  lost  all  look  of  humanity; 
nothing,  he  thought,  could  save  Savonarola  from  being  torn 
to  pieces. 

At  this  moment  the  storm  broke.  Rain  descended,  the 
like  of  which  had  not  been  seen  in  Florence. 

It  endured  but  a  short  time,  and  when  it  was  over  the  trial 
by  fire  had  become  an  impossibility.  For  between  the  twin 
piles  of  faggots  the  water  ran  with  the  fury  of  a  channel 
hemmed  in  between  dykes. 

Some  laughed. 

1  Well  done,  friars  !  They  undertook  to  tread  the  fire,  but 
they've  got  to  swim  for  it !     That's  their  miracle,  eh?' 

Cursed  by  the  crowd,  Savonarola  on  his  return  to  his 
convent  was  escorted  by  soldiers,  and  Giovanni's  heart  bled 
as  he  watched  the  deposed  prophet,  kicked  and  buffeted, 
making  his  way  with  faltering  step,  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
his  white  garb  splashed  with  the  mire  of  the  streets.  Leonardo 
saw  his  disciple's  wan  face,  and,  as  before  at  the  '  Burning  of 
Vanities,'  took  his  hand  and  led  him  away. 

IV 

Next  day  in  the  Casa  Berardi,  sitting  in  the  chamber 
which  was  so  like  a  ship's  cabin,  Leonardo  tried  to  prove  to 
Messer  Guido  that  Columbus  had  erred  in  locating  Paradise 
on  a  swelling  upon  a  pear-shaped  earth.  At  first  Guido 
listened  and  argued,  then  mournful  silence  fell  on  him.  He 
was  vexed  with  his  friend  for  telling  him  the  truth.  Presently 
he  discovered  pains  in  his  legs,  and  had  himself  carried  away. 

'Why  have  I  hurt  him?'  thought  Leonardo;  'He  wants  a 
miracle  too ! ' 

Turning  over  his  note-book,  his  eyes  fell  on  the  words  he 
had  written  that  night  when  the  Milanese  mob  had  attacked 
his  house  for  the  seizure  of  the  Holy  Nail:  'O  marvellous 
justice  of  Thee,  Thou  Prime  Mover,  who  hast  denied  to  nc 
force  the  order  and  the  qualities  of  its  necessary  effect  l* 


220  THE  FORERUNNER 

There  !'  he  exclaimed,  *  there  is  the  miracle ! ' 

And  his  thoughts  turned  to  his  Cenacolo  and  to  the  face  of 
Christ,  still  sought  for,  not  yet  found;  and  he  felt  that 
between  this  inviolable  law  of  Necessity,  and  the  perfect 
wisdom  of  Him  who  said,  'One  of  you  shall  betray  me/ 
there  existed  a  deep  correlation. 

In  the  evening  Giovanni  came  with  the  day's  news.  The 
Signoria  had  exiled  Fra  Girolamo  and  Fra  Domenico  from 
the  city ;  and  the  '  Enraged,'  brooking  no  delay,  had  besieged 
San  Marco  with  a  countless  throng  of  armed  persons,  and 
had  broken  into  the  church  where  the  brothers  were  at 
vespers.  They  defended  themselves,  fighting  with  burning 
tapers,  candlesticks,  and  crucifixes;  in  the  cloud  of  smoke 
they  seemed  ridiculous  as  angry  doves.  One  climbed  on  the 
roof  and  hurled  stones  down  from  it.  Another  fired  an 
arquebus  from  the  altar,  shouting  at  each  discharge  ■  Viva 
Cristo  ! '     Presently  the  monastery  was  taken  by  storm. 

The  brethren  entreated  Savonarola  to  flee,  but  he,  together 
with  Domenico,  gave  himself  up,  and  they  were  haled  to 
prison.  The  guards  were  unable  or  unwilling  to  defend  them 
from  the  insults  of  the  crowd,  who  struck  Fra  Girolamo  from 
behind,  crying : — 

'Prophesy  unto  us,  thou  man  of  God,  who  is  he  that 
smote  thee  ? ' 

Others  crawled  at  his  feet  as  though  seeking  something, 
and  cried  :  '  The  key  ?  The  key  ?  Where  is  Fra  Girolamo's 
key?' 

— in  allusion  to  the  key  often  spoken  of  in  his  sermons,  with 
which  he  would  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  abominations  of 
Rome. 

The  very  children  who  had  belonged  to  the  Sacred  Troop 
of  inquisitors  now  pelted  him  with  apples  and  rotten  eggs. 
Those  who  could  not  penetrate  the  crowd  howled  from  a 
distance,  reiterating  their  abuse  till  their  throats  were  hoarse. 

'Dastard!  Coward!  Judas!  Sodomite!  Sorcerer! 
Antichrist ! ' 

Giovanni  followed  him  to  the  doors  of  the  prison  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio,  whence  he  was  not  to  issue  till  the  day  of 
his  execution. 

On  the  following  morning  Leonardo  and  Boltraffio  quitted 
Florence. 

At  once,  on  arrival  in  Milan,  the  painter  set  himself  to  the 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  221 

task  which  had  baffled  him  for  eighteen  years — the  face  of 
the  Christ  in  the  '  Last  Supper ! ' 


On  the  very  day  of  that  trial  by  fire,  which  in  Florence  had 
had  such  bad  results — Charles  vin.,  King  of  France,  died 
very  suddenly.  The  news  was  of  sinister  import  to  II  Moro, 
for  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  who  was  now  to  ascend  the  throne 
as  Louis  xii.,  was  descended  from  Valentina  Visconti, 
daughter  of  the  first  Duke  of  Milan.  He  claimed  to  be  the 
only  legitimate  heir  of  the  dominion  of  Lombardy,  and  now 
proposed  to  reconquer  it,  annihilating  'the  robber  nest  of 
the  Sforzas.' 

Shortly  before  the  change  of  sovereigns  in  France,  there 
had  taken  place  at  the  Milanese  court  what  was  called  a 
Scientific  duel,'  and  II  Moro  had  found  so  much  entertain- 
ment that  he  proposed  another  for  a  day  two  months  later. 
Now  that  war  was  impending  some  supposed  he  would  post- 
pone this  duel,  but  Ludovico,  who  was  an  adept  in  the  arts 
of  dissimulation,  had  no  such  intention.  He  wished  his 
enemies  to  think  he  cared  little  for  their  designs,  but  was 
absorbed  in  that  revival  of  art  and  learning,  'the  fruit  of 
golden  peace,'  which  flourished  under  his  mild  rule,  and 
brought  him  the  fame  of  being  the  most  enlightened  Italian 
potentate,  the  protector  of  the  Muses,  protected  not  merely 
by  the  arms  but  by  the  admiration  of  his  people. 

Accordingly  on  the  appointed  day,  in  the  Great  Hall  of  the 
Rocchetta,  which  was  called  the  Sala  per  il  giuoco  della  pallet^ 
there  assembled  all  the  doctors,  deans,  and  masters  of  the 
University  of  Pavia,  wearing  their  scarlet  four-cornered 
berrette,  their  ermine-bordered  hoods,  their  violet  gloves,  and 
pouches  of  gold  embroidery.  Ladies  were  present  dressed  in 
sumptuous  festal  robes,  amongst  them  Lucrezia  and  Cecilia, 
sitting  together  at  the  foot  of  Ludovico's  throne.  The  proceed- 
ings were  opened  by  a  pompous  oration  from  Giorgio  Merula, 
in  which  the  Duke  was  likened  to  Pericles,  Epaminondas, 
Scipio,  Cato,  Augustus,  Maecenas,  and  other  worthies,  while 
Milan  was  celebrated  as  the  new  Athens,  of  surpassing  glory. 
Then  followed  a  theological  dispute  on  the  Immaculate 
Conception,  then  medical  discussions  on  the  following 
questions :— 


222  THE  FORERUNNER 

•Is  a  handsome  woman  more  prolific  than  an  ugly  one? 

'  Was  the  healing  of  Tobias  natural  ? ' 

'Is  woman  an  incomplete  creation  ?' 

'In  what  part  of  the  body  was  formed  the  water  which 
issued  from  the  side  of  the  crucified  Christ  ? ' 

'  Is  woman  more  sensual  than  man  ? ' 

Then  came  the  turn  of  the  philosophers,  on  the  unity  or 
the  plurality  of  primal  matter. 

'Be  good  enough  to  expound  me  this  apophthegm,'  said  a 
toothless  old  man  with  venomous  smile,  and  eyes  dull  and 
troubled  as  those  of  a  sucking  babe;  a  great  doctor  of 
scholastics,  who  thoroughly  understood  the  confounding  of 
opponents  by  subtle  distinctions  (quidditas  et  habitus\  which 
nobody  could  understand. 

Alone  and  thoughtful  as  was  his  custom,  Leonardo  was 
listening,  and  now  and  then  his  lips  curled. 

VI 

Pointing  to  Leonardo,  the  Countess  Cecilia  whispered  to 
the  Duke,  who  called  up  the  artist,  and  begged  him  to  take 
part  in  the  discussion. 

'Be  kind,'  insisted  the  countess.  'Do  it  for  my 
sake ' 

'  Lay  aside  your  bashfulness/  said  Ludovico,  '  and  tell  us 
something  entertaining.  Speak  to  us  of  your  observations 
upon  nature.  Do  we  not  know  that  your  brain  is  always 
stuffed  with  chimeras?' 

'Your  Excellency  must  excuse  me.  Madonna  Cecilia,  I 
would  gladly  please  a  lady,  but,  truly,  I  cannot ' 

Leonardo  was  not  feigning.  He  was  neither  able  nor 
willing  to  speak  before  a  crowd.  An  insuperable  barrier 
seemed  to  lie  between  his  thought  and  his  word,  as  if  speech 
must  either  exaggerate  or  be  inadequate  to  the  sense,  modify 
or  vitiate  it.  In  his  note-books  he  continually  cancelled, 
erased,  corrected,  and  revised;  in  conversation  he  stam- 
mered, lost  the  thread,  sought  for  words  and  could  not  find 
them.  He  called  both  orators  and  authors  'babblers,'  but  in 
secret  he  envied  them.  The  frequent  glibness  of  insignificant 
persons  was  a  wonder  and  an  annoyance  to  him. 

'  That  God  should  give  such  men  such  skill  I '  he  would 
say,  with  a  kind  of  ingenuous  admiration. 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  223 

However,  the  more  firmly  Leonardo  declined  the  task 
offered  him,  so  much  the  more  did  the  ladies  insist. 

'We  beseech  you,  Messere!  We  all  pray  you  with  one 
voice.     Tell  us,  tell  us  something  entertaining  ! ' 

'  Tell  us  how  men  are  to  fly ! '  suggested  Madonna 
Fiord  iligi. 

'Nay,  but  speak  to  us  of  sorcery !'  cried  Madonna 
Ermellina;  'something  of  black  magic !  'Tis  so  interesting, 
this  necromancy.  Explain  to  us  how  they  raise  the  dead 
men  from  their  graves ! ' 

'I  assure  you,  Madonna,  I  have  never  raised  any  dead 
person  from  his  grave.' 

'  Then  take  some  other  theme,  so  it  be  terrible,  and  have 
no  savour  of  mathematics.' 

Leonardo  was  always  hard  put  to  it  to  refuse  a  beggar,  and 
he  could  only  repeat  with  embarrassment : — 

'Truly,  Madonna,  I  am  incapable ' 

But  Ermellina  interrupted  him,  clapping  her  hands. 

'  He  consents !  He  consents !  Silence  for  Messer 
Leonardo  !     Listen  ye  all ! ' 

'Eh?  Who?  What?'  asked  the  dean  of  the  theological 
faculty,  who  was  deaf,  and  somewhat  fallen  into  dotage. 

'  'Tis  Leonardo  ! '  shouted  his  neighbour  into  his  ear. 

'  Leonardo  Pisano,  the  mathematical  professor  ? ' 

'  No,  Leonardo  da  Vinci  himself.' 

'Is  he  doctor  or  master?' 

'No,  nor  even  bachelor.  Leonardo,  the  painter  of  the 
Cenacolo* 

'  Is  he  going  to  speak  of  painting  ?  ■ 

'  It  seems  he  will  speak  of  natural  science.' 

'Are  the  painters  so  learned?  I  have  never  heard  of  this 
Leonardo.     What  has  he  written  ? ' 

'  Nothing  that  I  know  of.' 

'Nay,'  said  another,  "tis  certain  that  he  writes,  for  they 
say  he  uses  his  left  hand,  and  produces  a  caligraphy  proper 
only  to  himself,  which  none  can  read.' 

'Which  none  can  read?  With  his  left  hand?'  said  the 
old  dean. 

'I  take  it,  gentlemen,  this  speech  will  be  some  jest;  an 
interlude  to  entertain  the  Duke  and  the  ladies.' 

'Very  like  'twill  be  ridiculous.     We  shall  see.' 

'Just  so,  just  so.     'Tis  necessary  to  amuse  the  folk  of  the 


224  THE  FORERUNNER 

court  And  painters  are  witty  fellows  enough.  Buffalmacco, 
now — they  said  he  was  a  perfect  jester.  Well,  let  us  see  what 
this  Leonardo  is  good  for.' 

And  the  old  man  polished  his  spectacles,  the  better  to 
enjoy  the  comedy. 

Leonardo  was  still  looking  supplicatingly  at  the  Duke,  but 
though  smiling,  Ludovico  was  determined ;  and  the  Countess 
Cecilia  menaced  the  hesitant  with  her  finger. 

'If  I  refuse  I  shall  offend  them,'  thought  the  artist;  'and 
very  soon  I  shall  be  requiring  bronze  for  the  Cavallo.  Well, 
I  will  say  the  first  thing  that  comes  into  my  head,  just  to  be 
quit  of  the  business.' 

And  with  desperate  resolution  he  mounted  the  tribune  and 
threw  a  glance  upon  the  learned  assembly.  Then,  blushing 
and  stammering  like  a  boy  who  does  not  know  his  lesson,  he 
began : — 

'I  must  warn  you,  gentlemen,  I  am  not  prepared.  .  .  . 
'Tis  to  please  the  Duke.  I  would  say — I  mean — in  fine, 
I  will  speak  to  you  about  shells.' 

And  he  told  of  petrified  marine  animals,  the  imprints  of 
coral,  and  water-plants  found  on  hills  and  in  valleys  far 
removed  from  the  sea,  evidence  of  how  the  face  of  the  earth 
has  been  changing  from  time  immemorial.  There,  where 
now  are  hills  and  dry  land,  once  was  the  ocean.  Water, 
the  mover  of  Nature,  her  'charioteer,'  creates  and  destroys 
the  very  mountains ;  the  shores  gradually  remove  into 
the  centre  of  the  sea,  and  the  inland  seas  lay  bare  their 
beds,  traversed  by  some  river  which  ever  hurries  towards 
the  sea,  scoring  for  itself  a  deep  channel.  Thus  the  Po, 
which  now  rushes  across  the  dried-up  lake  of  Lombardy, 
will  eventually  score  itself  a  deep  channel  across  the  dried-up 
Adriatic ;  and  the  Nile,  when  the  Mediterranean  has  become 
a  country  of  hills  and  plains  like  Egypt  and  Libya,  will  empty 
itself  into  the  Atlantic  Ocean  beyond  the  Pillars  of  Hercules. 

'I  am  convinced,'  said  Leonardo  in  conclusion,  'that 
the  study  of  petrified  plants  and  animals,  which  we  have 
hitherto  neglected,  will  lay  the  foundation  of  a  new  science 
of  our  earth ;  of  its  past,  and  of  its  future.' 

Notwithstanding  the  awkwardness  of  his  delivery, 
Leonardo's  ideas  were  so  clear  and  precise,  his  faith  in 
knowledge  was  so  sure,  all  he  had  said  was  so  unlike  the 
Pythagorean  ravings  of  the  previous  disputant,  and  the  dry 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  22$. 

bones  of  logic  in  the  mouths  of  the  learned  doctors,  that  when 
he  stopped  speaking  a  stupor  of  amazement  was  seen  on  the 
faces  of  the  audience.  Were  they  to  laugh  or  to  applaud  ? 
Was  this  talk  of  a  new  science  the  vain  chatter  of  a 
presumptuous  fool? 

'Truly,  my  Leonardo,'  said  the  Duke  condescendingly, 
as  if  speaking  to  a  child,  'it  would  be  famous  fun  if 
the  Adriatic  were  to  dry  up  and  leave  our  enemies,  the 
Venetians,  stranded  like  crabs  on  a  sandbank.' 

At  this  they  all  laughed,  well  pleased  to  be  told  the  line 
they  were  to  take,  for  courtiers  are  ever  weathercocks  turned 
by  the  wind.  Messer  Gabriele  Pirovano,  the  Rector  of  the 
University  of  Pavia,  an  old  gentleman  with  silver  hair,  fine 
manners,  and  a  dignified  but  somewhat  foolish  face,  thus 
delivered  himself,  reflecting  in  his  smile  the  condescending 
kindness  of  the  Duke : — 

'Messer  Leonardo,  the  information  you  have  given  us  is 
very  interesting ;  but  were  it  not  perhaps  simpler  to  explain 
the  origin  of  these  little  shells,  as  a  charming  (we  might  even 
say  poetic)  but  wholly  accidental  freak  of  nature,  rather  than 
as  the  foundation  of  an  entire  new  science  ?  Or,  as  others 
have  done  before  us,  we  might  account  for  their  presence  by 
the  catastrophe  of  the  universal  Deluge.' 

'  Oh,  the  Deluge  ! '  said  Leonardo,  who  had  conquered  his 
shyness  and  now  spoke  with  a  freedom  which  to  many 
appeared  excessive  and  even  irreverent ;  '  I  know  that  explana- 
tion, but  it  won't  do  at  all.  Judge  for  yourself,  Messer 
Gabriele.  According  to  the  man  who  measured  it,  the  level 
of  the  waters  of  the  flood  exceeded  by  ten  cubits  the  tops  of 
the  highest  mountains.  The  shells  would  have  settled  on 
the  summits,  not  on  the  sides  or  the  feet  of  the  mountains, 
nor  within  caverns ;  and,  withal,  they  would  have  settled  at 
haphazard  according  to  the  pleasure  of  the  waters,  and  not 
everywhere  at  the  same  level,  not  in  consecutive  layers,  as  we 
find  by  observation.  And  further,  here  is  a  wondrous  thing. 
We  find  collected  together  all  those  creatures  which  are  used 
to  live  in  societies,  such  as  oysters,  cuttlefish,  molluscs  ;  while 
those  which  are  used  to  be  solitary  are  scattered  singly  in 
their  fossil  state  just  as  we  find  their  descendants  now  on  the 
seashore.  I  myself  have  often  noted  the  position  of  these 
petrified  shells  in  Tuscany  and  in  Lombardy  and  in  Pied- 
mont. And  if  you  tell  me  'twas  not  the  waves  carried  them, 
P 


226  THE  FORERUNNER 

but  that  of  themselves  they  gradually  rose  in  crowds  above 
the  water  as  it  grew  higher,  that,  too,  is  easily  refuted,  for  a 
shellfish  is  as  slow  a  beast  as  a  snail.  It  floats  not,  but  crawls 
with  its  valves  over  sand  and  stones,  and  the  furthest  it  can  go 
in  a  day's  hard  journeying  is  some  three  or  four  arm-lengths. 
How  then,  Messer  Gabriele,  would  you  explain,  that  in  the 
forty  days  of  the  flood's  duration,  your  shellfish  could  creep 
the  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  which  divide  the  hills  cf 
Monferrato  from  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic  ?  Only  he  who, 
despising  experiment  and  observation,  judges  of  Nature  from 
books,  can  maintain  such  an  argument ;  not  he  who  has  had 
the  curiosity  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  those  things  of  which 
he  speaks.' 

An  uncomfortable  silence  followed ;  all  felt  that  the  Rector's 
reply  had  been  a  trifle  weak.  Then  the  court  astrologer, 
Ambrogio  da  Rosate,  a  great  favourite  of  the  Duke's,  advanced 
another  explanation  based  on  Pliny's  natural  history;  which 
was  that  the  petrified  shapes  which  looked  like  marine 
animals  had  been  formed  in  the  interior  of  the  earth  by  the 
magic  working  of  the  stars. 

At  the  word  magic,  a  resigned  smile  played  over  Leonardo's 
lips.  *  Then,  Messer  Ambrogio,'  he  replied,  ■  how  would  you 
explain  the  fact  that  the  stars  in  the  one  place  should  make 
animals  not  only  of  many  kinds  but  of  various  ages  ?  (for  the 
age  of  shells  can  be  ascertained  no  less  than  the  age  of  horns 
or  of  trees).  What  say  you  to  finding  some  of  these  shells 
entire,  some  broken,  some  mixed  with  sand,  mud,  the  claws 
of  crabs,  fish-bones,  and  rubble,  such  as  you  may  see  any  day 
on  the  seashore ;  and  the  delicate  imprint  of  leaves  on  the 
rocks  of  the  highest  mountains,  and  marine  weeds  clinging  to 
the  shells,  petrified  and  blended  into  one  lump  with  them  ? 
From  the  working  of  the  stars,  say  you?  If  this  is  to  be 
our  reasoning,  Messere,  then  in  all  Nature  there  will  be  no 
phenomenon  for  which  you  cannot  account  by  the  starry 
influences,  and  all  science  outside  astrology  is  useless.* 

Here  an  old  Doctor  of  scholastic  interposed,  saying  that  the 
dispute  was  irregular. 

*  For,'  he  exclaimed,  *  either  this  question  of  fossils  belongs 
to  a  vulgar,  mechanical  science,  alien  to  metaphysic,  and 
hence  not  to  be  discussed  in  an  assembly  met  to  contend 
solely  about  philosophical  questions,  or  it  verily  pertains  to 
the  true,  the  sublime  science  of  dialectic ;  in  which  case  it 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  227 

must  be  discussed  according  to  the  laws  of  dialectic,  which 
alone  allows  theory  to  ascend  to  the  sphere  of  pure  specu- 
lation.' 

'  I  understand  you,  Messere,'  said  Leonardo  patiently ;  '  I 
have  thought  of  what  you  say.  But  the  alternative  is  not  as 
you  state  it.' 

*  Not  as  I  state  it  ? '  cried  the  veteran  smiling  angrily,  ■  not 
as  I  state  it?  Then,  sir,  pray  let  us  hear  how  you  propose 
to  state  it ! » 

*  Nay,  nay ;  I  had  no  wish  to  offend.  In  fine,  I  spoke  but 
of  shells.  I  think — nay,  Messere,  but  there  is  no  vulgar 
science,  nor  is  there  sublime  science.  There  is  but  one 
science ;  that  which  is  based  upon  the  experience  of  the 
senses.' 

1  The  experience  of  the  senses  ?  Then  where  would  you 
put  the  metaphysic  of  Aristotle,  of  Plato,  of  Plotinus,  and 
of  all  the  ancient  philosophers  who  speculated  upon  God, 
upon  the  soul,  and  upon  the  essences  ?  Would  you  say  of 
all  this ?' 

'That  it  is  not  science,'  replied  Leonardo  calmly.  'I 
recognise  the  greatness  of  the  ancients,  but  not  in  that 
respect.  In  science  they  mistook  the  road.  They  wished  to 
learn  what  was  beyond  the  reach  of  knowledge,  and  what  was 
within  their  reach  they  despised.  They  led  men  astray  for 
many  ages.  Discussing  matters  which  admit  not  of  proof, 
it  is  impossible  for  men  to  agree ;  the  less  so  if  they  would 
make  up  for  the  lack  of  proof  by  vehemence  of  clamour. 
He  who  truly  knows  has  no  occasion  to  shout.  The  voice 
of  truth  is  unique ;  and  when  it  has  spoken,  all  the  noise 
of  dispute  must  be  hushed.  If  the  cries  continue,  it  means 
that  the  truth  has  not  yet  been  found.  Do  we  need  mathe- 
matical dispute  as  to  whether  twice  three  be  six  or  five? 
or  whether  the  angles  of  a  triangle  be  or  be  not  equal  to  two 
right  angles?  In  these  instances  doth  not  contradiction  cease 
in  the  presence  of  truth  ?  and  is  not  truth  to  be  enjoyed  as 
it  never  can  be  enjoyed  in  sophistical  and  imaginary 
sciences  ? ■ 

Leonardo  would  have  spoken  further,  but  after  a  glance  at 
the  fnce  of  his  opponent  he  became  silent. 

'  Ah  ! '  said  the  doctor  of  scholastic,  ironically,  •  I  thought 
we  should  arrive  at  an  agreement !  You  and  I  were  certain 
to  understand  one  another !     But  one  thing  I  do  not  under- 


228  THE  FORERUNNER 

stand.  Pardon  the  ignorance  of  an  old  man  !  If  our  know- 
ledge of  God  and  of  a  future  life,  not  being  confirmed  by 
the  testimony  of  our  senses,  but  by  the  testimony  of  Holy 
Writ ' 

'  I  spoke  not  of  this,'  interrupted  Leonardo  ;  *  I  leave  out 
of  the  dispute  the  books  inspired  by  God,  for  they  are  of 
the  substance  of  supreme  truth.' 

He  was  not  allowed  to  continue;  uproar  ensued.  Some 
shouted,  some  laughed;  some,  springing  from  their  chairs, 
turned  wrathful  faces  on  him,  while  others,  shrugging  their 
shoulders,  left  the  assembly. 

'  Make  an  end  !     Make  an  end  1 

■  But,  gentlemen,  permit  me  to  reply ' 

1  There  is  no  occasion  for  reply.' 

*  When  things  are  stated  contrary  to  sense ' 

'  I  desire  to  speak  ! ' 

■  Plato  and  Aristotle  ! '  .  .  . 

*  Not  worth  a  rotten  egg  ! ' 

1  But  I  ask,  shall  this  be  permitted  ?  The  truth  of  our 
Holy  Mother  Church ' 

1  Heresy !     Heresy  !     Atheism  !' 

Leonardo  remained  silent,  his  face  calm  and  sad.  He  was 
alone  among  these  men  who  believed  themselves  the  servants 
of  knowledge,  and  he  saw  the  impassable  gulf  which  separated 
him  from  them.  He  was  displeased,  not  with  his  opponents, 
but  with  himself  for  having  broken  his  accustomed  silence,  and 
become  entangled  in  an  argument ;  for  having  conceived  (in 
defiance  of  experience)  that  it  were  possible  to  reveal  the 
truth  unto  men,  or  that  they  were  able  to  receive  it. 

As  for  the  Duke,  though  he  had  long  lost  the  thread  of 
the  argument,  he  continued  to  follow  the  disputation  with 
delight. 

*  Good  !  Really  good  ! '  he  applauded,  rubbing  his  hands. 
1  Madonna  Cecilia,  will  they  not,  think  you,  presently  come 
to  blows?  Look  at  that  old  fellow,  shaking  all  over,  brandish- 
ing his  cap,  clenching  his  fists!  And  the  little  black  one 
behind  him,  foaming  at  the  mouth  !  And  all  about  a  few 
fossil  shells !  Fine  madmen,  these  scholars !  kittle  cattle ! 
And  our  Leonardo,  who  pretended  to  be  possessed  by  a 
dumb  devil ! ' 

And  they  laughed,  watching  the  scientific  duel  as  if  it  were 
a  cock-fight. 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  229 

'  I  shall  have  to  save  my  Leonardo,'  said  II  Moro  at  last, 
'or  these  red-capped  folk  will  claw  him.' 

And  he  rose  and  passed  through  the  crowd  of  infuriated 
philosophers,  who  suddenly  were  hushed  into  silence  as  they 
made  way  for  him.  Soothing  oil  had  been  poured  upon  stormy 
waves ;  one  smile  from  the  prince  sufficed  for  the  reconcilia- 
tion of  metaphysics  and  natural  science.  He  closed  the  dis- 
cussion by  a  courteous  invitation  to  supper. 

1 1  am  glad,'  he  said  with  his  usual  gaiety,  '  that  the 
Adriatic  is  not  yet  dry;  because  I  trust  that  its  oysters, 
which  I  have  had  cooked  for  your  entertainment,  may  give 
rise  to  less  contention  than  the  shells  of  Messer  Leonardo.' 

VII 

During  the  supper  Fra  Luca  Pacioli,  who  was  sitting  beside 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  whispered  in  his  ear : — 

*  Forgive  me,  friend,  that  I  kept  silence  when  they  attacked 
you.  They  did  not  understand  your  meaning,  but  you  might 
easily  make  an  alliance  with  them,  for  the  one  opinion  does 
not  exclude  the  other.     Avoid  extremes.' 

' 1  entirely  agree  with  you,  Fra  Luca,'  replied  Leonardo. 

'  That 's  the  way  ;  love  and  concord.  What  is  the  object 
of  dissension  ?  Metaphysics  are  good,  and  mathematics  are 
good  !     Room  for  both.     Is  it  not  so,  dear  friend  ?  ■ 

1  Precisely  so,  Fra  Luca.' 

*  I  was  sure  you  would  agree.  You  give  in  to  me,  I  give 
in  to  you ;  we  are  allied,  you  with  us,  we  with  you.' 

Leonardo  looked  at  the  astute  countenance  of  the  mathe- 
matical monk,  who  reconciled  Pythagoras  and  Thomas 
Aquinas  so  easily  ;  and  he  thought — 

'The  calf  sucks  from  two  dams.' 

Then  the  alchemist,  Galeotto  Sacrobosco,  raising  his  glass 
and  bending  towards  Leonardo  with  the  air  of  an  accom- 
plice, said — 

1  To  your  good  health,  Master !  How  skilfully  you  played 
them  on  the  line  !     What  a  subtle  allegory  ! ' 

1  Allegory  ? '  repeated  Leonardo,  stupefied. 

'To  be  sure,  Messere.  No  call  for  mystery  with  me. 
We  shall  not  betray  one  another.  By  dry  land  you  meant 
sulphur;  by  the  sun,  salt;  by  the  ocean  which  overflowed 
the  mountains,  quicksilver.    Do  I  catch  your  meaning  ? ' 


230  THE  FORERUNNER 

'  Precisely,  Messer  Galeotto.' 

'You  see  even  we  are  good  for  something!  As  for  the 
shells,  by  them  you  intended  the  philosopher's  stone,  the 
alchemist's  secret,  composed  of  what  ?  why  of  sulphur,  salt, 
and  quicksilver ! ' 

And  he  laughed  his  jolly  child-like  laugh,  raising  his  fore- 
finger and  arching  his  brows,  which  were  scorched  by  the 
fury  of  his  immense  furnaces. 

'  And  all  these  great  doctors  with  their  red  caps  understand 
not  a  word  of  it !  To  your  health,  Messer  Leonardo,  and  to 
the  glory  of  alchemy,  our  common  mother ! ' 

'I  honour  the  toast,  Messer  Galeotto.  And  as  I  see 
nothing  can  be  concealed  from  you,  I  will  vex  you  with  no 
further  mysteries.' 

After  supper  the  party  broke  up :  only  a  small  and  selected 
company  were  invited  by  the  Duke  into  a  cool  snug  room, 
where  wine  and  fruits  were  served. 

'Most charming!  Insurpassable!'  cried  Madonna  Ermellina. 
•I  should  never  have  conceived  it  could  be  so  diverting. 
Better  than  a  festa  !  How  they  shouted  at  Leonardo  !  Pity 
he  might  not  finish — he  would  have  told  us  of  his  spells  and 
necromancy.' 

*  Perchance  'tis  calumny,'  said  an  old  courtier ;  '  but  I  am 
told  the  infection  of  heresy  has  so  taken  hold  of  Leonardo, 
that  he  scarce  credits  the  existence  of  God.  He  holds  it  of 
greater  moment  to  be  a  philosopher  than  a  Christian/ 

*'Tis  mere  babble,'  said  the  Duke.  'I  know  the  man 
well,  and  I  swear  he  has  a  heart  of  gold.  He  is  violent  in 
word,  but  in  practice  would  not  hurt  a  flea.  He  dangerous! 
Would  that  all  dangerous  ones  were  as  he!  The  Father 
Inquisitors  would  have  him,  but  let  them  roar !  None  shall 
hurt  a  hair  of  my  Leonardo  ! ' 

1  And  our  posterity  will  praise  your  Excellency  for  having 
protected  a  genius  so  extraordinary,'  said  Messer  Baldassare 
Castiglione,  a  very  elegant  cavalier  from  the  court  of  Urbino. 
"Tis  pity,' he  added,  'that  the  man  should  neglect  his  art 
to  give  himself  to  dreams  and  chimeras.' 

'True,  Messer  Baldassare;  I  have  often  reproached  him. 
But  painters,  you  know,  are  an  unmanageable  race.' 

'  Your  Excellency  speaks  well,'  said  the  Commissioner  of 
the  Salt  Tax,  who  was  burning  to  tell  a  tale  of  Leonardo ; 
painters  are  impracticable  folk.     T'other  day  I  came  to  his 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  231 

studio  seeking  an  allegorical  drawing  for  a  marriage  chest. 
"Is  the  master  at  home?"  say  I.  "No,"  is  the  reply,  "he 
hath  gone  forth,  greatly  busied,  to  measure  the  weight  of  the 
air."  Truly,  I  thought  the  youth  mocked  me;  but  when  I 
met  Leonardo  himself  and  taxed  him  with  this  folly,  he 
confessed  it,  looking  at  me  as  if  he  thought  I  were  a  fool. 
Ladies,  how  like  you  the  notion  ?  and  how  many  grains  will 
you  find  in  the  spring  zephyr  ? ' 

'  I  know  worse  of  him  than  that,'  said  a  young  lord  with 
a  vulgar  self-complacent  face;  che  has  invented  a  boat  which 
travels  up  stream,  yet  without  oars.' 

*  How  doth  it  travel  ? ' 

'On  wheels,  by  steam.' 

'A  boat  with  wheels  ?  Nay,  sir,  this  must  be  your  invention 
of  this  moment ! ' 

*I  had  it  of  Fra  Luca  Pacioli,  who  had  seen  the  design. 
Leonardo  conceives  that  in  steam  lies  a  force  able  to  move 
large  ships,  let  alone  little  boats.' 

1  You  see  !  You  see  !  Did  I  not  tell  you  ! '  cried  Madonna 
Ermellina,  'this  is  his  necromancy,  black  magic  pure  and 
simple ! ' 

"Tis  not  to  be  denied  he  is  mad  ! '  said  the  Duke  with  his 
urbane  smile;  'for  all  that  I  wish  him  well.  In  his  company 
I  never  weary  !  ■ 

VIII 

Leonardo  went  homewards  by  the  quiet  suburb  of  Porta 
Vercellina.  It  was  a  lovely  evening.  Goats  were  contentedly 
browsing  along  the  edge  of  the  road ;  and  a  rugged  sunburnt 
little  lad  was  driving  a  flock  of  geese.  Storm-clouds,  lined 
with  gold,  were  rising  in  the  north  over  the  unseen  Alps,  and 
high  up  in  the  clear  sky  there  burned  a  single  star. 

The  artist  walked  slowly ;  he  was  thinking  of  the  scientific 
dispute  which  he  had  just  left,  and  then  his  thoughts  went 
back  to  the  trial  by  fire  at  which  he  had  been  present  in 
Florence.  He  could  not  but  think  the  two  duels  resembled 
each  other  like  twins. 

A  little  girl  of  six  was  eating  rye-bread  and  onions  on 
the  outside  staircase  of  a  cottage.  He  called  her,  and  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  reassured  by  his  smile,  she  trotted  to 
him,  smiling  herself.  He  gave  her  a  sugared  and  gilded 
orange  which  he  had  brought  from  the  supper. 


232  THE  FORERUNNER 

'Gold  ball! 'said  the  child. 

'No,  not  a  ball.  A  sort  of  apple.  Try  it;  'tis  sweet 
within/ 

She  continued  to  stare  ecstatically  at  the  unfamiliar  dainty. 

'What  is  your  name?'  he  asked. 

'  Maia.' 

'  I  wonder,  Maia,  if  you  know  how  the  cock,  the  goat,  and 
the  donkey  went  a-fishing  together  ? ' 

'No.' 

'Shall  I  tell  you?' 

And  he  fondled  her  soft  wild  curls  with  his  delicate,  almost 
womanish,  hand.  '  Come  here  then  !  Let  us  sit  down ! 
Wait  a  minute,  though,  I  think  I  have  some  nice  cakes  also, 
as  you  won't  try  my  golden  apple  ! '  And  he  turned  out  his 
pockets.  A  young  woman  now  appeared,  looked  at  Maia 
and  at  the  stranger,  nodded  approvingly,  and  seated  herself 
with  her  distaff.  Then  came  also  the  grandmother,  a  bent 
old  woman  with  eyes  like  Maia's.  She,  too,  looked  at 
Leonardo ;  but  suddenly,  as  if  recognising  him,  she  made  a 
sign  with  her  hands  and  whispered  to  her  daughter,  who 
sprang  up  saying : — 

'  Maia !     Maia !     Come  away  at  once  I ' 

The  child  hesitated. 

'  Come,  run,  naughty  one ;  unless  you  wish ' 

The  little  girl  was  frightened  and  fled  to  the  grandmother, 
who  snatched  the  orange  from  her  and  flung  it  over  the  wall 
to  the  pigs.  The  child  cried,  but  the  old  woman  whispered 
something  in  her  ear  which  at  once  checked  her  sobs,  and 
she  sat  gazing  at  Leonardo  with  wide  eyes  full  of  terror. 
The  painter  turned  away,  well  understanding.  The  old 
woman  thought  him  a  sorcerer  capable  of  bewitching  the 
child.  A  sad  smile  on  his  lips,  still  mechanically  searching 
for  the  cakes  no  longer  needed,  pained  at  heart  by  the  little 
one's  needless  fear,  he  felt  himself  more  of  an  outcast  than 
in  face  of  the  crowd  which  had  sought  to  kill  him,  the  learned 
men  who  fancied  his  truths  the  ravings  of  a  madman.  He 
felt  himself  as  far  removed  from  his  fellows  as  was  that 
solitary  star  shining  in  the  still  undarkened  sky. 

He  went  home  and  shut  himself  into  his  study.  With 
its  dusty  scientific  instruments  and  its  dull  books,  it  seemed 
to  him  gloomy  as  a  prison.  However,  he  lighted  a  candle, 
seated  himself,  and  became  immersed  in  his  latest  research, 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  233 

<tn  inquiry  into  the  laws  of  the  motion  of  bodies  travelling 
on  an  inclined  plane.  Like  music,  mathematics  had  ever  for 
him  a  soothing  influence;  and  to-night,  they  brought  him 
the  hoped-for  consolation.  Having  finished  his  calculations, 
he  took  his  diary,  and  writing  with  his  left  hand,  and  from 
right  to  left,  so  that  reading  must  be  in  a  mirror,  he  recorded 
a  few  thoughts  roused  by  the  scientific  disputation. 

'The  disciples  of  Aristotle,  men  of  words  and  of  books, 
because  I  am  not  a  letterato  like  themselves,  think  me  in- 
capable of  speech  on  my  own  subjects.  They  perceive  not 
that  my  matters  are  to  be  expounded  rather  by  experience 
than  by  words;  experience,  which  truly  was  mistress  of  all 
those  who  have  written  well ;  which  I  will  take  for  my  mistress, 
by  which,  in  all  cases,  I  will  stand  or  fall.' 

The  candle  had  burned  low ;  and  the  cat,  faithful  comrade 
of  his  sleepless  nights,  sprang  on  the  table,  purring  and  rub- 
bing herself  against  him.  The  solitary  star,  seen  through  the 
undusted  windows,  seemed  still  farther  away,  still  less  attain- 
able. He  remembered  Maia's  frightened  eyes,  but  he  had 
vanquished  his  melancholy.  He  was  solitary,  yes,  but  un- 
daunted and  serene.  Nevertheless,  unknown  to  himself, 
there  was  bitterness  in  the  secret  depth  of  his  heart  like  a 
hot  spring  beneath  the  ice  of  a  frozen  river;  there  was 
almost  remorse,  as  if,  verily,  he  were  guilty  concerning  Maia; 
as  if  there  were  something  for  which  he  was  unable  entirely 
to  forgive  himself. 

IX 

Next  morning  Leonardo,  with  Astro  carrying  sketch-books, 
paint-boxes  and  brushes,  was  on  his  way  to  the  monastery 
for  a  day's  work  on  the  figure  of  the  Saviour.  He  stopped 
in  the  courtyard  to  speak  to  Nastasio,  who  was  busily  grooming 
a  grey  mare. 

'Bravo!'  said  the  master,  'and  how  is  Giannino  to-day?7 
Giannino  was  his  favourite  horse. 

'Giannino  is  all  right,'  answered  the  groom,  'but  the 
piebald  is  lame.' 

'  The  piebald  ? '  said  Leonardo,  vexed  ;  '  and  since  when  ? ' 

'  Since  four  days  agone,'  replied  Nastasio  surlily ;  and  with- 
out looking  at  his  master,  he  continued  curry-combing  the 
mare's  hindquarters  with  such  energy  that  she  changed  her 
feet. 


254  THE  FORERUNNER 

Leonardo,  however,  wished  to  see  the  piebald,  and  the 
groom  took  him  to  the  stable.  When  Giovanni  Boltraflfio,  a 
few  minutes  later,  came  to  the  courtyard  fountain  for  his 
morning  wash,  he  heard  the  master  talking  in  loud  piercing 
tones  almost  feminine  in  their  shrillness,  which  he  used  in 
rare  passions  of  sudden,  violent,  but  not  dangerous  anger. 

*  Tell  me  this  instant,  you  fool,  you  drunken  ape,  tell  me 
who  bade  you  summon  the  horse-leech  ? ' 

*  I  pray  you,  Messere,  could  a  sick  horse  be  left  without 
a  leech  ? ' 

'  A  pretty  leech  !   Think  you,  fool,  that  stinking  plaster ' 

*'Tis  not  so  much  a  plaster  as  a  charm.  You  are  not 
learned  in  these  matters,  and  that  is  why  you  are  so 
wroth.' 

'The  devil  take  you  and  your  charms  together!  How 
could  that  ignoramus  cure  anything  when  he  knows  naught 
of  the  structure  of  the  body,  and  has  never  heard  the  name 
of  anatomy  ? ' 

'  Anatomy,  forsooth ! '  said  Nastasio,  raising  lazy  con- 
temptuous eyes  to  his  master. 

1  Ass  ! '  shouted  the  latter ;  '  take  yourself  off  out  of  my 
service !' 

The  groom  did  not  move  an  eyelash. 

'  I  was  on  the  stroke  of  leaving  you  on  my  own  account. 
Your  Excellency  owes  me  three  months'  wages ;  and  as  regards 
the  oats,  'tis  no  fault  of  mine.  Marco  gives  me  no  money 
for  oats.' 

'What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?  Once  I  issue  my 
orders ' 

Nastasio  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  returned  to  his 
grooming  of  the  grey  mare,  working  violently  as  if  venting 
his  spleen  on  the  dumb  animal. 

Meantime  Giovanni,  amused  by  the  altercation,  was  smiling 
as  he  scrubbed  his  face  with  a  coarse  towel. 

'Shall  we  set  out,  Master?'  asked  Astro,  wearied  by 
the  delay. 

'Wait,'  replied  Leonardo;  'I  must  ask  Marco  about  the 
oats.  I  would  know  how  much  truth  is  in  the  words  of  this 
scoundrel.' 

And  he  returned  to  the  house,  Giovanni  following  him. 
Marco  was  in  the  studio,  working  as  usual  by  rule  and 
with   mathematical  accuracy,  perspiring  and  panting  as  if 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  235 

he  were  rolling  a  weight  uphill.  His  closely  compressed 
lips,  the  disorder  of  his  red  hair,  his  red  fat  ineffectual  fingers, 
seemed  to  say,  ■  Patience  and  perseverance  will  conquer  all 
things/ 

*  Marco  I  Is  it  true  you  give  out  no  money  for  the  horses' 
oats  ? ' 

'  Of  a  surety  it  is  true.' 

'How  is  that,  friend?'  exclaimed  the  painter,  his  look 
having  already  become  timorous  before  the  stern  face  of  him 
who  was  steward  of  the  household.  '  I  bade  you,  Marco, 
take  heed  to  remember  the  oats.     Have  you  forgotten  ? ' 

1  No,  I  have  not  forgotten ;  but  there  is  no  money.' 

*  I  guessed  as  much.  There  is  always  this  lack  of  money. 
None  the  less,  Marco,  I  ask  you,  can  horses  live  without 
oats  ? ' 

Marco  threw  his  brush  away  angrily.  And  Giovanni 
noticed  how  the  master  and  the  scholar  seemed  to  have 
changed  places. 

'Hearken,  Master!'  said  Marco.  'You  bade  me  take 
charge  of  the  housekeeping,  and  not  trouble  you.  Why 
do  you  yourself  re-open  the  matter?' 

'Marco!'  said  Leonardo,  with  gentle  reproach,  "twas  but 
a  week  ago  that  I  gave  you  thirty  florins.' 

'  Thirty  florins  !  Pr'ythee  count  it  up.  Of  this  thirty,  four 
were  a  loan  to  Pacioli,  two  to  that  eternal  sponge,  Messer 
Galeotto  Sacrobosco;  five  went  to  the  body-snatchers  for 
your  anatomy  studies ;  three  for  mending  the  glass  and  the 
stoves  in  the  hot  room  for  your  reptiles  and  fishes;  and 
six  golden  ducats  went  for  that  spotted  devil ' 

1  Do  you  mean  the  camelopard  ? ' 

'Precisely;  the  camelopard.  We  have  nothing  to  eat 
ourselves,  but  we  feed  that  cursed  beast.  And  whether  we 
feed  him  or  not,  'tis  clear  that  he  will  die.' 

'Never  mind,  Marco,'  said  Leonardo  gently;  'if  he  die  I 
will  dissect  him.  The  neck  vertebrae  of  these  animals  are 
very  curious.' 

'  The  neck  vertebrae  !  Oh,  Master  !  Master !  if  you  had 
not  all  these  fancies  for  horses,  and  corpses,  and  giraffes,  and 
fish,  and  every  sort  of  beast,  we  might  live  as  lords,  asking 
alms  of  no  one.     Is  not  daily  bread  better  than  caprices?' 

'Bread?  Have  I  ever  asked  for  anything  better  than 
bread  ?     Oh,  I  know  very  well,  Marco,  you  would  like  to  see 


236  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  death  of  all  my  creatures,  though  they  cost  me  so  much 
trouble  and  expense  to  obtain.  They  are  indispensable 
to  me — more  so  than  you  can  imagine.  You  want  to  have 
everything  your  own  way.' 

Helpless  injury  trembled  in  the  voice  of  the  Master ;  and 
Marco  maintained  a  sulky  silence. 

'But  what  is  to  become  of  us?'  continued  Leonardo. 
'  Already  a  famine  of  oats  ?  We  were  never  in  such  straits 
before.' 

'We  have  always  been  in  straits,'  said  Marco,  'and  we 
always  shall  be.  What  can  you  expect  ?  For  a  year  we  have 
not  had  a  quattrino  from  the  Duke.  Messer  Ambrogio 
Ferrari  says  daily,  "  to-morrow !  to-morrow ! "  and  to  my 
thinking  he  but  mocks  us.* 

1  Mocks  us  !  Well,  I  will  show  him  how  to  mock  at  me ! 
I  will  complain  to  the  Duke  !  I  will  give  that  scurvy  piece, 
Ambrogio,  a  lesson  he  shall  not  forget !  the  Lord  send  him 
an  evil  Easter ! ' 

Marco  made  a  vague  gesture,  as  if  to  say  it  was  not 
Leonardo  who  would  teach  lessons  to  the  Duke's  treasurer. 
Then  an  expression  of  kindness  and  love  came  over  his  hard 
features,  and  he  added  soothingly  : — 

I  No,  no,  Master,  let  it  be  !  God  is  merciful,  and  we  shall 
get  along  in  some  fashion.  If  you  really  take  it  to  heart,  I 
will  find  the  money  even  for  your  oats.' 

And  Marco  reflected  that  he  could  use  some  of  his  own 
money,  a  little  hoard  he  had  been  making  for  his  mother. 

'The  oats  are  not  the  major  question,'  said  Leonardo, 
sinking  wearily  on  a  chair,  and  defending  his  eyes  as  if  from 
a  cruel  wind.  '  Hearken,  friend,  there  is  a  thing  I  have  not 
yet  told  you ;  next  month  I  shall  absolutely  require  eighty 
ducats,  which  I  have  had  on  loan.  There  is  no  need  to  stare 
at  me  with  those  eyes,  Marco.' 

*  Of  whom  had  you  the  loan  ? ' 

'  Of  the  money-changer,  Arnoldo — ' 

*  Of  Arnoldo  !  Oh,  Master !  what  have  you  done?  Don't 
you  know  he  is  worse  than  any  infidel  or  any  Jew?  Why 
did  you  not  tell  me  at  once  ? ' 

Leonardo  hung  his  head. 

I I  wanted  the  money — be  not  so  wroth,  Marco  ! '  he  said ; 
and  added  piteously,  ■  Bring  the  reckonings,  perhaps  we  shall 
be  able  to  devise  something.' 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  237 

Marco  was  convinced  they  could  devise  nothing;  however, 
rinding  absolute  obedience  the  best  way  of  influencing  the 
Master,  he  fetched  the  account  -  books.  Leonardo's  brow 
contracted  in  a  look  of  disgust,  and  he  watched  the  opening 
of  the  too  familiar  green  volume  with  the  air  of  one  looking  into 
a  gaping  wound;  then  together  they  plunged  into  calculations, 
and  it  was  wonder  and  pity  to  see  the  great  mathematician 
making  the  blunders  of  a  child  in  the  additions  and  the 
subtractions.  Now  and  then  he  suddenly  remembered  some 
mislaid  account  of  a  thousand  ducats,  sought  it,  fumbled  in 
cases  and  boxes,  and  dusty  piles  of  papers,  but  found  in  its 
place  trifling  and  useless  memoranda  written  in  his  own 
hand,  such,  for  instance,  as  that  one  of  Salaino's  cloak : — 
Silver  brocade,  .  .  .  Livre  15  soldi  4 
Crimson  velvet  for  trimming,     „       9      „      o 

Braid, ,       o      „      9 

Buttons,    .         .         .         .         „       o      „     12 
He  tore  them  angrily,  and  blushing  and  swearing  threw  them 
under  the  table. 

Giovanni,  seeing  on  the  great  man's  face  these  marks  of 
human  weakness,  murmured  to  himself: — 

*A  new  Hermes  Trismegistus  halved  with  a  new  Pro- 
metheus ?  Nay,  neither  god  nor  Titan,  but  a  simple  mortal 
like  the  rest  of  us  1  And  to  think  that  I  feared  him  1  the 
poor  kind  soul ! ' 


Two  days  passed,  and  as  Marco  had  foreseen,  Leonardo 
forgot  the  money  question  completely.  He  demanded  three 
florins  for  the  purchase  of  a  fossil  with  so  confident  an  air 
that  Marco  lacked  courage  to  refuse  him,  and  handed  out  the 
money  from  his  private  hoard.  The  ducal  treasurer,  deaf  to 
Leonardo's  entreaties,  had  still  not  paid  the  year's  salary,  and 
was  the  less  likely  to  do  so  that  Ludovico  himself  required 
great  sums  to  spend  in  preparation  for  war  with  France. 
Leonardo  was  obliged  to  borrow  wherever  he  could,  even 
from  his  own  pupils. 

Nor  was  the  money  forthcoming  for  the  completion  of  the 
Sforza  monument.  The  plaster  cast,  the  mould,  the  receiver 
for  the  molten  metal,  the  furnace — all  were  ready ;  but  when 


238  'J } IE  FORERUNNER 

the  artist  presented  his  estimate  for  the  bronze,  II  Moro  was 
alarmed,  and  even  refused  him  an  interview. 

At  last,  in  the  end  of  November,  urged  by  want,  he  wrote 
a  letter  to  the  Duke ;  sentences  fragmentary,  disconnected, 
like  the  stammering  of  one  overcome  by  confusion,  who  does 
not  know  how  to  beg. 

'Signore,  knowing  that  the  mind  of  your  Excellency  is 
occupied  with  affairs  of  greater  moment,  yet  fearing  that 
silence  may  be  a  cause  of  anger  to  my  most  gracious  patron, 
I  take  freedom  to  remind  your  Excellency  of  my  humble 
necessities,  and  of  the  needs  of  my  art,  now  condemned  to 
inactivity.  .  .  .  Two  years  have  passed  since  I  have  received 
my  salary.  .  .  . 

*  Some  persons  in  your  Grace's  service  can  afford  to  wait, 
since  they  have  other  revenue,  but  I  with  my  art,  which, 
however,  I  would  gladly  abandon  for  one  more  lucrative.  .  .  . 

*  My  life  is  at  your  Excellency's  service ;  and  I  shall  always 
be  prompt  in  obedience. 

'I  speak  not  of  the  monument,  for  I  know  that  the 
times  .  .  . 

'It  irks  me  that  owing  to  the  necessity  of  earning  my 
livelihood  I  must  break  off  my  work,  and  occupy  myself  with 
trivialities. 

'I  have  had  to  provide  for  six  persons  during  fifty-six 
months,  with  only  fifty  ducats.  .  .  . 

*  I  know  not  to  what  I  must  dedicate  my  activity.  .  .  . 
'Am  I  to  study  glory,  or  only  my  daily  bread  .  .  .  ?' 

XI 

One  November  evening,  after  a  day  spent  in  soliciting  the 
munificent  Gaspare  Visconti,  and  Arnoldo  the  usurer,  and  in 
coming  to  terms  with  the  hangman — who  demanded  payment 
for  two  corpses  (used  by  the  artist  for  studies),  threatening  in 
default  to  denounce  the  purchaser  to  the  Holy  Inquisition — 
Leonardo  came  home  greatly  wearied  and  out  of  heart. 
Having;  dried  his  clothes  by  the  kitchen  fire,  and  received  the 
key  of  his  workshop  from  Astro,  he  was  proceeding  thither  when 
he  was  surprised  by  the  sound  of  voices  behind  the  door. 

*  What  ? '  he  said,  c  is  it  not  locked  ?     Can  it  be  thieves  ? ' 
Recognising  the  tones  of  his  pupils,  Giovanni  and  Cesare, 

he  suspected  them  of  prying  into  his  private  papers.     About 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  239 

to  throw  open  the  door,  he  was  arrested  by  a  vivid  imagination 
of  their  confusion,  and  the  wide  eyes  of  terror  with  which 
they  would  greet  him.  He  felt  ashamed  for  them,  and  went 
away,  walking  on  tiptoe  as  if  himself  the  culprit ;  presently  he 
called  from  the  studio  : — 

1  Astro  !  Astro !  Bring  me  a  light !  Where  have  you  all 
got  to?     Andrea!  Marco!  Giovanni!  Cesare!' 

The  voices  in  his  room  were  silenced,  some  glass  thing  fell 
with  a  crash,  there  was  a  shutting  of  windows.  Leonardo 
still  hesitated,  unable  to  resolve  upon  entry.  In  his  heart 
was  not  so  much  anger  as  disgust. 

His  suspicions  were  not  amiss.  Having  entered  by  the 
courtyard  window,  Giovanni  and  Cesare  had  searched  his 
drawers  and  opened  his  papers,  drawings,  and  diaries. 
Boltraffio,  very  pale,  held  a  mirror,  and  Cesare  read  the 
master's  inverted  writing : — ■ 

'  Laude  del  Sole.  I  cannot  but  blame  Epicurus,  who  main- 
tained that  the  sun's  magnitude  is  no  other  than  it  seemeth. 
Socrates  astounds  me,  who,  depreciating  so  great  a  light,  calls  it 
but  a  molten  stone.  And  would  I  had  vocables  strong  enough  to 
confound  those  who  prefer  the  apotheosis  of  man  to  the  apotheosis 
of  the  sun  I ' 

1  Shall  we  pass  on  ? '  asked  Cesare. 

'Read  to  the  end,'  said  Giovanni. 

I  Those  who  worship  men  for  gods'  continued  the  reader, 
1  are  greatly  in  error  ;  for  man,  though  he  were  of  the  magnitude  of 
the  earth,  would  appear  smaller  than  the  smallest  star,  a  scarce 
visible  spot  upon  the  universe;  and  seeing,  further,  that  men  in 
their  sepulture  are  subject  to  putridity  and  decay — ' 

'Strange/  observed  Cesare,  'that  he  can  reverence  the  sun, 
but  appears  not  to  recognise  Him  who,  dying,  was  the 
vanquisher  of  death.' 

He  turned  the  page.     ■  Let  us  try  this.' 

'  In  all  parts  of  Europe,  by  great  peoples,  will  be  bewailed  this 
day  the  death  of  a  man  ivho  died  in  Asia — ' 

'You  don't  understand,  Giovanni.  I  will  explain:  he 
treats  of  Good  Friday.     Shall  I  go  on  ? ' 

1 0  mathematicians,  throw  light  upon  this  error  !  Spirit  exists 
not  without  body,  and  where  is  no  flesh,  nor  blood,  nerves,  tongue , 
bone,  and  muscle,  can  be  neither  voice  nor  movement? 

I I  can't  make  it  out ;  the  next  lines  are  erased.  We  will 
pass  to  the  end.' 


240  THE  FORERUNNER 

*  Other  definitions  of  spirit  T  leave  to  the  Holy  Fathers, 
who  know  the  secrets  of  Nature  by  revelation  from  above.' 

1  H'm,  I  would  not  be  Messer  Leonardo  if  these  lucubra- 
tions should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Holy  Fathers !  Here 
we  have  another  of  his  prophecies.' 

4  Enough  shall  there  be,  who,  leaving  the  ascesis  of  labour  and 
poverty,  think  to  serve  God  by  living  luxuriously  in  buildings 
like  palaces,  and  in  amassing  visible  wealth  at  the  expense  of 
the  wealth  invisible' 

*  I  conclude  he  here  treats  of  Indulgences.  Quite  in 
Savonarola's  vein  !     A  stone  slung  at  the  pope.' 

'  Those  who  have  been  dead  a  thousand  years  will  be  the  food 
of  the  living' 

■  That  passes  me !  Nay,  though,  the  thousand-year  dead 
must  be  the  saints  in  whose  name  the  monks  collect  money. 
A  pretty  riddle  ! ' 

*  They  shall  adore  those  who  do  not  hear ;  they  shall  burn 
lamps  before  those  wh*  do  not  see.1 

1  Images  of  saints.' 

'  Women  shall  disclose  to  men  their  passions,  their  secret  and 
shameful  deeds.1 

'  The  confessional !  How  does  it  like  you,  Giovanni  ? '  A 
strange  man,  is  he  not  ?  But  there  is  no  real  malice  in  these 
riddles.     It  is  only  jest — sporting  with  blasphemy.' 

*  Many  who  cozen  the  simple  by  dealing  in  pretended  miracles, 
punish  those  who  unmask  their  deceits' 

■  The  trial  by  fire,  of  which  the  reckless  Savonarola  was  the 
victim.' 

He  laid  down  the  book  and  looked  at  his  companion. 

*  Well,  is  it  enough  ?  or  do  you  want  further  proof?' 
Boltraffio  shook  his  head :  *  No,  Cesare,  it  is  not  enough. 

Could  we  but  find  a  place  where  he  speaks  plainly  ! " 

*  Plainly  ?  Ask  not  for  that.  Such  is  his  disposition.  He 
deals  ever  double,  conceals  himself,  feigns  like  a  woman. 
Riddles  are  his  nature.  Nor  does  he  know  himself.  He  is 
his  own  greatest  enigma.' 

*  Cesare  is  right,'  thought  Giovanni.  'Better  open  blas- 
phemy than  these  mockings — this  smile  as  of  the  unbelieving 
Thomas,  who  thrust  his  fingers  into  the  wounds  of  the  Lord.' 

Then  Cesare  showed  a  drawing  in  red  chalk,  tossed  care- 
lessly among  the  machines  and  the  tables  of  calculations — the 
Virgin  with  the  Child  in  the  desert ;  seated  on  a  stone,  she 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  241 

was  drawing  triangles  and  circles  with  her  finger  on  the 
sand — the  Mother  of  God  teaching  the  Divine  Son  geometry, 
the  principle  of  all  knowledge.' 

Giovanni  gazed  long  at  this  strange  drawing  ;  then  he  held 
it  to  the  mirror  that  they  might  decipher  the  inscription. 
Cesare  had  scarce  read  the  first  words,  '  Necessity,  the  eternal 
teacher?  when  Leonardo's  call  was  heard  : — 

1  Astro  !  Bring  me  a  light !  Andrea  !  Marco  !  Giovanni ! 
Cesare  ! '  Then  Giovanni  turned  pale.  The  mirror  fell  from 
his  hands,  breaking  into  pieces. 

I  An  evil  omen,'  said  Cesare  with  a  smile. 

Like  thieves  caught  in  the  act  they  pushed  the  papers 
into  their  places,  picked  up  the  fragments  of  the  mirror, 
opened  the  window,  sprang  to  the  ledge  and,  clinging  to 
the  water-pipe  and  the  branches  of  the  vine,  dropped  into  the 
court.    Cesare  missed  his  hold,  fell,  and  sprained  his  foot. 

XII 

That  evening  Leonardo  did  not  find  his  accustomed  solace 
in  his  mathematics.  He  walked  the  room,  seated  himself, 
began  a  drawing,  flung  it  aside.  His  mind  was  vaguely 
uneasy  ;  there  was  something  he  must  decide,  yet  could  not. 
His  thought  reverted  continually  to  the  same  thing ;  how 
Boltraffio  had  fled  to  Savonarola,  had  returned,  and  for 
a  time  had  settled  down  to  work,  recovering  his  calm 
in  the  pursuit  of  art ;  but  ever  since  that  disastrous  trial 
by  fire,  and  especially  since  the  news  of  the  prophet's 
approaching  execution  had  reached  Milan,  he  had  again 
been  racked  by  doubts  and  regret.  Leonardo  understood 
how  he  suffered  j  how  again  he  felt  the  necessity  to  go  away, 
yet  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  j  how  terrible  was 
the  struggle  in  a  nature  too  deep  not  to  feel,  too  weak  to 
overcome  its  own  contradictions.  Sometimes  Leonardo 
fancied  he  must  himself  drive  his  disciple  away  in  order  to 
save  him. 

A  bitter  smile  came  to  his  lips  as  he  thought : — 

•  It  is  true  that  I — I  only — have  ruined  him  !  'Tis  a  just 
accusation  that  I  have  the  evil  eye!  How  am  I  to  help 
him?' 

He  rose  and  mounted  the  steep  dark  stair,  knocked  at  a 
door,  and  receiving  no  answer  opened  it  and  went  in.  In  the 
Q 


242  THE  FORERUNNER 

narrow  room  the  darkness  was  scarce  broken  by  the  little 
lamp  burning  before  the  figure  of  the  Madonna ;  rain  was 
splashing  on  the  roof,  and  the  autumn  wind  howled  mourn- 
fully. A  black  crucifix  was  suspended  against  the  white  wall. 
Giovanni,  still  dressed,  his  face  hidden  in  the  pillow,  lay  in 
the  unrestful  position  of  a  suffering  child. 

1  Are  you  asleep  ? '  asked  the  Master,  bending  over  him. 

He  started  up,  with  a  faint  cry,  gazing  with  the  same 
terror-struck  eyes  and  defensive  hands  that  Leonardo  had 
seen  with  the  little  Maia. 

1  Why,  Giovanni !  Giovanni !  What  is  the  matter?  It  is 
only  I!' 

Boltraffio  came  to  himself,  passing  his  hand  slowly  over 
his  eyes. 

*  Ah !  it  is  you,  Messer  Leonardo  !  I  fancied — I  have  had 
a  terrible  dream !  But  is  it  really  you  ? '  he  repeated,  his 
brows  contracted  as  if  he  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes. 

The  Master  sat  on  the  bedside  and  touched  the  lad's 
forehead. 

4  You  have  fever.     Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ? ' 

*  Giovanni  would  have  turned  away,  but  looking  afresh  at 
Leonardo,  and  joining  his  hands  supplicatingly,  he  said  : — ■ 

1  Drive  me  out !  Drive  me  from  you,  Master  !  I  shall  never 
myself  have  the  courage  to  go.  I  am  guilty  towards  you— a 
vile  traitor.* 

For  answer  Leonardo  embraced  him,  drawing  him  to  his 
breast. 

1 What  say  you,  my  son  ?  Do  you  think  I  have  not  seen 
your  distress?  If  there  is  anything  in  which  you  tUnk  you 
have  wronged  me,  I  pardon  it.  Perhaps  some  day  you  will 
be  asked  to  pardon  me ! ' 

Astonished,  Giovanni  gazed  at  him  with  dreaming  eyes, 
then  suddenly  hid  his  face  in  his  breast,  sobs  shaking  his 
frame  as  he  murmured  : — 

1  If  ever  again  I  am  obliged  to  leave  you,  oh,  Master,  do 
not  think  it  is  for  lack  of  love  !  I  myself  know  not  what  has 
happened  to  me.  Sometimes  I  fear  I  am  losing  my  reason. 
God  has  forsaken  me  !  Oh,  never,  never  suppose — for  truly 
I  love  vou  more  than  all  else  in  the  world !  I  love  you  more 
than  Fra  Benedetto,  who  is  as  my  father.  Never  will  any  one 
love  you  as  do  I ! ' 

Leonardo  soothed  him  like  a  child.     '  Enough !     Enough  1 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  243 

Think  you  I  credit  not  your  love,  my  poor  lad  ?  Has  Cesare 
suggested — but  why  do  you  heed  Cesare?  He  is  clever,  and 
he,  too,  loves  me  well,  for  all  he  thinks  to  hate  me;  but  there 
are  matters  beyond  him.' 

The  disciple  had  become  calm,  and  his  tears  were  dry. 
Raising  himself,  and  fixing  scrutinising  eyes  on  the  Master,  he 
shook  his  head. 

4  No  ;  it  was  not  Cesare.  'Twas  I  myself.  And  yet  no ;  it 
was  not  I,  but  he.9 

'Whois/fc?? 

Giovanni  again  trembled,  and  pressed  closer  to  his  friend. 
1  No,  no  !     For  God's  sake  let  us  not  speak  of  him  ! ' 

1  Listen,  my  son,'  answered  Leonardo,  in  that  soothing  yet 
severe  and  almost  rough  tone  in  which  a  doctor  speaks  to  a 
sick  child ;  '  I  see  you  have  a  weight  upon  your  heart.  You 
must  tell  me  all;  all,  do  you  hear?  Thus  only  shall  I  be 
able  to  help  you ; '  and  after  a  pause  he  added  :  '  Tell  me  of 
whom  you  spoke  just  now.' 

Giovanni  looked  round  as  if  in  fear ;  then  whispered  in  low, 
awestruck  tones : — 

1  Of  your  Semblance.' 

'My  Semblance?  How  mean  you?  Did  you  see  it  in  a 
dream  ? ' 

1  No  ;  in  reality.' 

For  a  moment  Leonardo  thought  him  delirious. 

'  Messer  Leonardo,  three  nights  ago  you,  yourself,  came  to 
me  as  you  have  come  to-night  ? ' 

I  No,  I  did  not  come.  Why  do  you  ask  ?  Can  you  not 
remember  yourself? ' 

I I  do  remember.     Master,  now  I  am  certain  it  was  he  ! ' 
'But  what  has  given  you  this  idea?     What  happened?' 

He  felt  that  Giovanni  wished  to  speak,  and  sought  to  force 
him  to  do  so,  in  the  hope  it  would  afford  him  relief. 

'  This  is  what  happened.  Three  nights  ago  he  came  to  me 
as  you  have  come  to-day  at  this  very  hour,  and  he  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  as  you  do  now,  and  in  every  word,  in  every 
motion  he  was  as  you ;  and  his  face  was  like  yours,  only  as 
if  seen  in  a  glass,  nor  was  he,  like  you,  left-handed,  so  I 
thought  at  once  within  myself,  perchance  it  was  not  you ;  and 
he  knew  my  thought,  yet  dissembled  and  made  no  sign,  but 
pretended  that  we  both  knew  naught.  Only  on  leaving  he 
turned  himself  round  to  me  and  said:    "Hast  thou  never, 


244  THE  FORERUNNER 

Giovanni,  seen  that  one  in  my  likeness?  If  so  be  thou  dost 
see  him,  be  not  at  all  afraid."  And  from  his  saying  this  I 
understood  all.' 

'And  you  still  believe  this,  my  poor  boy?' 

•  How  should  I  not  believe  it,  when  I  saw  him  as  now  I  see 
you  ?    Ay,  and  he  spoke  with  me  ! ' 

*  Of  what  did  he  speak  ? ' 

Giovanni  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  did  not 
answer  at  once. 

1  It  was  not  good,'  he  said  at  last  in  deprecating  tones ;  'he 
said  terrible  things  to  me.  He  said  that  there  was  nothing  in 
the  world  but  Mechanics — things  like  that  terrible  spider 
with  the  bloody  revolving  arms,  which  he — no,  not  he — ■ 
which  you  have  invented.' 

'  What  spider  ?  Ah  yes,  yes  !  I  understand ;  you  have 
seen  my  drawing  of  the  scythed  chariot  ? ' 

'  And  he  said,'  resumed  Giovanni,  '  that  what  men  call  God 
is  the  eternal  force  by  which  the  hideous  spider  is  moved,  by 
means  of  which  its  blood-stained  arms  revolve ;  and  that  this 
God  cares  nothing  for  truth  or  untruth,  for  good  or  evil,  for 
life  or  death.  And  that  praying  to  him  is  bootless,  for  he  is 
inexorable  as  mathematics;  two  and  two  will  never,  never 
make  five.' 

'  I  see.  I  see.  You  torture  yourself  uselessly.  I  know 
how  it  is.' 

'  No,  Messer  Leonardo,  you  do  not  yet  know  all.  He  said 
that  Christ  had  died  in  vain,  had  not  risen  triumphant  from 
the  grave,  had  not  vanquished  death,  but  that  His  body  lay 
mouldering  in  the  tomb.  And  when  he  said  this,  I  burst  into 
weeping,  and  he  had  compassion  on  me,  and  tried  to  bring 
me  comfort.  And  he  said :  "  Weep  not !  There  is  no  Christ, 
but  there  is  Love,  Great  Love,  the  daughter  of  Great  Know- 
ledge. Who  knoweth  all,  loveth  all."  Master,  he  used  your 
very  words !  "  Of  old,"  he  said,  "  they  taught  that  love  came 
of  weakness,  of  wonder,  of  ignorance ;  but  I  tell  you  it  comes  of 
strength,  of  truth,  of  wisdom ;  for  the  serpent  lied  not  when 
he  said,  Eat  of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil, 
and  ye  shall  be  as  gods."  And  then  I  knew  him  that  he 
came  of  the  devil !  I  cursed  him,  and  he  withdrew  himself; 
but  he  said  he  would  come  again.' 

Leonardo  listened  with  as  much  interest  as  if  this  were  no 
longer  the  delirium  of  sickness.     He  felt  the  gaze  of  his 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  245 

disciple,  now  almost  calm,  but  terribly  accusatory,  sink  into 
the  secret  depths  of  his  soul. 

*  And  the  most  fearsome  thing/  continued  Giovanni,  slowly 
withdrawing  himself  from  the  Master,  and  looking  him  full  in 
the  face  with  fixed  and  piercing  eyes ;  '  the  most  fearsome  was 
that,  as  he  spake  to  me  thus,  he  smiled.  Yes,  he  could  smile ! 
He  smiled,  as  you  smile  upon  me  now — you  1 ' 

And  his  face  became  suddenly  pale  as  wax,  and  with 
starting  eyes  and  contorted  features,  he  pushed  Leonardo 
from  him,  and  cried  in  a  wild  shout  of  terror : — 

'  Thou  !  Thou  again  !  Thou  hast  cozened  me  !  In  the 
name  of  God,  begone!  Get  thee  behind  me,  Accursed 
One!' 

At  these  words  the  Master  rose,  and  with  compelling  eyes 
fixed  on  his  disciple,  he  said  : — 

1  Giovanni,  of  a  truth  you  will  do  well  to  leave  me.  You 
remember  it  is  said  in  the  Scripture,  "He  that  feareth  is  not 
made  perfect  in  love."  If  you  loved  me  with  perfect  love 
you  would  have  no  fear;  you  would  know  that  all  this  is 
delusion  and  madness ;  that  I  am  not  what  men  suppose ; 
that  I  have  no  Semblance ;  and  that,  perchance,  I  believe  more 
truly  in  Christ  my  Saviour  than  do  those  who  call  me  Anti- 
christ.   Farewell,  Giovanni.' 

His  voice  shook  with  inexpressible  bitterness,  which  was, 
however,  un resentful.     He  rose  to  go. 

*  Have  I  spoken  truth  ? '  he  asked  himself,  and  felt  that  if 
his  pupil  could  only  be  saved  by  lies,  he  still  was  unable 
to  lie.  Boltrafiio  flung  himself  upon  his  knees  at  Leonardo's 
feet. 

1  Master !  pardon  me.  Nay,  I  know  it  is  madness !  I 
will  drive  away  these  hideous  thoughts !  Only  forgive  me. 
Let  me  stay  ! ' 

Leonardo  looked  at  him,  his  eyes  glistening  with  tender- 
ness ;  then  he  bent  over  him  and  kissed  his  brow. 

'Then  forget  not,  Giovanni,  that  you  have  promised!1 
he  exclaimed ;  and  added  calmly,  '  Now  let  us  go  down  ;  the 
cold  is  too  nipping  here.  I  cannot  leave  you  in  this  room 
till  you  are  completely  cured.  I  have  some  urgent  business 
on  hand,  in  which  you  can  help  me.' 


246  THE  FORERUNNER 

XIII 

He  took  his  disciple  into  his  own  sleeping-chamber,  which 
adjoined  the  studio,  blew  up  the  fire,  and  when  the  crackling 
flame  had  diffused  a  pleasant  light  upon  everything,  bade 
Giovanni  prepare  him  a  panel  for  a  picture.  He  hoped  that 
work  would  calm  the  sick  youth,  nor  was  he  mistaken  ; 
by  degrees  Giovanni  became  completely  absorbed  in  his 
occupation. 

With  concentrated  and  serious  attention,  as  if  the  task 
were  of  the  most  curious  and  important  in  the  world,  he 
helped  the  Master  to  soak  the  wood  in  acquavita,  bi-sulphate 
of  arsenic  and  corrosive  sublimate,  to  keep  it  from  becom- 
ing worm-eaten;  they  filled  in  the  dents  and  chinks  with 
alabaster,  cypress  lac,  and  mastic,  and  smoothed  the  uneven- 
ness  with  a  plane.  As  usual,  under  the  hands  of  Leonardo, 
the  work  went  on  easily  as  child's  play.  He  talked  also, 
and  gave  instruction  on  the  making  of  brushes,  the  coarser 
of  pigs'  bristles  fixed  in  lead,  and  the  finer  of  squirrels'  hair 
set  in  goose-quill ;  of  varnish  also,  and  the  driers  to  be 
used,  of  Venetian  green  and  ferruginous  ochre.  A  pleasant, 
pungent,  business-like  scent  diffused  itself  through  the  room, 
and  as  Giovanni  rubbed  the  panel  lustily  with  linseed  oil, 
the  exertion  made  him  hot.  His  fever  had  disappeared. 
Once,  stopping  to  take  breath,  he  looked  at  Leonardo,  but 
the  latter  cried  : — 

*  Make  haste !  make  haste  !  if  you  let  it  grow  cold  the  oil 
won't  sink  in  ! ' 

And  Giovanni,  bending  his  back,  compressing  his  lips,  and 
straining  his  legs,  rubbed  on  with  increased  energy  and  good 
will. 

*  How  do  you  feel  now?'  asked  Leonardo. 
'Well !'  replied  the  other  smiling. 

The  rest  of  the  pupils  gathered  also  in  the  bright  room. 
The  comfort  and  warmth  within  was  redoubled  by  the  howl 
of  the  wind  and  the  patter  of  the  rain  outside.  Salaino 
came,  shivering  but  light-hearted ;  Astro,  the  one-eyed 
Cyclops ;  Jacopo  and  Marco ;  but  Cesare  da  Sesto,  as  usual, 
kept  aloof  from  this  friendly  circle. 

Then  the  panel  was  laid  aside  to  dry,  and  Leonardo  dis- 
coursed on  the  purest  oil  for  painting.  An  earthen  dish  was 
brought,  in  which  was  white  walnut  juice  covered  with  amber- 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  247 

coloured  grease.  Long  coils,  like  lamp-wicks,  were  laid  in  it 
and  allowed  to  drip  into  a  glass  vessel. 

4  See,  see  ! '  cried  Marco,  '  what  purity !  Mine  is  always 
turbid,  however  often  I  strain  it ! ' 

'  Do  you  skin  your  nuts  ? '  said  Leonardo ;  '  if  you  do  not, 
your  colours  will  turn  black.' 

*  Then,'  said  Marco,  '  the  thin  peel  of  a  nut  might  ruin  the 
best  painting  in  the  world  !  Hear  you,  lads?  you  who  mock 
me  because  I  carry  out  the  Master's  instructions  with  mathe- 
matical rigidity ! ' 

The  pupils  laughed  and  talked  and  jested  while  they 
watched  the  preparation  of  the  oil.  It  was  late,  but  no  one 
cared  for  sleep,  and  without  heeding  the  protests  of  Marco 
the  steward,  they  continually  threw  new  logs  upon  the  fire. 
All  were  unaccountably  merry. 

*  Let  us  tell  stories,'  said  Andrea  ;  and  began  with  the  tale 
of  the  priest  who  on  Holy  Saturday  took  upon  himself  to 
sprinkle  a  particular  picture  with  holy  water.  'Why  so?' 
asked  its  painter.  c  Because  it  is  written  that  for  a  good  work 
one  shall  receive  a  hundredfold,'  replied  the  priest.  And 
presently,  as  he  left  the  house,  the  painter  from  an  upper 
window  poured  a  pail  of  water  on  his  head  and  cried — 
{  Here  is  the  hundredfold  for  the  good  you  have  done  me  in 
spoiling  my  best  picture.' 

Other  tales  followed,  and  none  enjoyed  them  more  than 
Leonardo,  who  indeed  laughed  like  a  child,  nodding  his  head 
and  wiping  tears  from  his  eyes,  and  cackling  with  a  strange 
thin  laugh,  incongruous  with  his  great  height  and  powerful 
build. 

About  midnight  they  agreed  it  were  impossible  to  go  to  bed 
without  eating,  especially  as  they  had  supped  sparingly,  for 
Marco  kept  them  on  short  commons.  Astro  brought  all  there 
was  in  the  pantry,  some  stale  ham,  cheese,  a  few  olives,  and 
some  bread.    Wine  there  was  none. 

1  Have  you  tilted  the  cask  ? ' 

*  In  all  directions.    There  is  not  a  drop.' 

1  Ah,  Marco !  Marco  !  what  are  we  to  do?  How  can  we  go 
without  wine?' 

*  Can  I  buy  wine  without  money?'  said  Marco. 

*  There  is  money,  and  there  shall  be  wine  ! '  cried  Jacopo, 
tossing  a  gold  piece. 

*  How  got  you  it,  imp  of  the  devil  ?    Marry,  stealing  again, 


248  THE  FORERUNNER 

I  suppose !  Come  here  and  I  '11  box  your  ears  for  you,'  said 
Leonardo,  shaking  his  finger  at  him. 

I  I  swear  by  God,  Master,  I  did  not  steal  it.  Cut  out  my 
tongue  and  send  me  to  the  pit  if  I  did  not  win  it  at  dice.' 

*  Well,  stolen  or  not,  fetch  us  some  wine.' 

Jacopo  ran  off  to  the  Golden  Eagle  hard  by,  much  fre- 
quented by  the  Swiss  mercenaries,  and  kept  open  all  night;  pre- 
sently he  returned  with  pewter  cans.  The  wine  increased  the 
mirth;  the  little  Ganymede  holding  the  vessel  high  so  that 
beaded  bubbles  winked  on  the  red  liquid  ;  and  overflown 
with  pride  in  entertaining  the  company  at  his  own  expense, 
he  played  pranks  and  jested  and  jumped ;  and  mimicking  the 
hoarse  voice  of  a  confirmed  toper,  he  sang  the  song  of  the 
unfrocked  monk : — 

■  To  the  devil  with  cowl  and  with  frock,  oh ! 
With  hood  and  with  scapularie  ! 
Pretty  nun,  the  lord  Abbot  bemock,  oh  ! 
And  dance  at  the  junket  with  me  ! 

Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !» 

and  then  the  solemn  chorus  from  the  Bacchanalian  Mass, 
written  in  Latin,  and  sung  by  the  students  on  festive  occa- 
sions : — 

'  Who  waters  wine  at  this  high  feast  supernal 
Shall  drown  in  it  for  ages  sempiternal, 
And  after  roast  at  fires  of  realms  infernal ! ' 

They  drank  toasts  to  the  Master's  health,  to  the  glory  of  his 
studio,  to  the  hopes  of  future  wealth;  and  Giovanni  never 
supped  so  much  to  his  liking  as  at  this  beggars'  feast,  on 
cheese  hard  as  rock,  stale  bread,  and  Jacopo's  stolen  wine. 
Presently  Leonardo  said  with  a  smile — 

I I  have  heard,  friends,  that  St.  Francis  called  melancholy 
the  worst  of  sins,  and  preached  that  whoso  wished  to  please 
God  must  be  cheerful.  Let  us  drink  to  the  wisdom  of 
Francis  and  to  eternal  cheerfulness  in  God.' 

These  words  were  surprising  to  all  the  youths  except 
Giovanni,  who  understood  their  intention. 

'Eh,  Master,'  said  Astro,  shaking  his  head,  'it  is  very  well 
to  speak  of  cheerfulness,  but  how  can  we  be  cheerful  while 
we  crawl  along  the  ground  like  grave-worms?  Let  the  others 
toast  what  they  please,  but  I  will  drink  to  wings  and  to  the 
flying-machine.  May  the  devil  carry  away  the  laws  of  gravity 
and  of  mechanics  which  interfere  with  us.' 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  249 

'Without  mechanics  you  won't  fly  far,  my  friend/  said  the 
Master  laughing. 

After  this  the  party  broke  up,  and  Leonardo  would  not 
allow  Giovanni  to  return  to  his  cold  attic ;  he  aided  him  to 
improvise  a  bed  in  his  own  room  as  near  as  might  be  to  the 
hearth,  where  a  few  cinders  still  glowed  red. 


XIV 

Giovanni  had  learned  from  Cesare  that  the  master  had  all 
but  finished  the  face  of  the  Christ  in  the  '  Last  Supper ' ;  he 
had  asked  several  times  to  be  allowed  to  see  it,  but  Leonardo 
had  always  postponed  the  matter. 

At  last,  one  morning  he  took  the  lad  to  the  Refectory,  and 
there,  in  the  place  which  had  been  vacant  for  sixteen  years, 
between  St.  John  and  St.  James,  against  the  square  of  the  open 
window,  with  the  background  of  the  quiet  evening  sky  and 
the  blue  hills  of  Zion,  Giovanni  saw  the  Christ. 

A  few  days  later  Leonardo  sent  him  for  a  rare  mathematical 
book  to  the  house  of  the  alchemist,  Sacrobosco.  He  was 
returning  late  in  the  evening.  The  air  was  frosty  and  still, 
after  a  day  of  high  wind  and  thaw  ;  the  pools  and  the  ruts  of 
the  road  were  coated  with  ice;  the  low  clouds  seemed  to 
cling  motionless  to  the  purple  tops  of  the  larches,  in  which 
were  a  few  ruined  and  deserted  nests.  Darkness  came  on 
apace ;  on  the  dim  verge  of  the  horizon  stretched  the  long 
copper  and  golden  streak  where  the  sun  had  gone  down. 
The  water  in  the  Cantarana  Canal,  still  unfrozen,  seemed 
heavy,  black  as  iron,  and  unfathomably  deep. 

Giovanni  did  not  own  it  to  himself,  and  indeed  used  every 
effort  to  suppress  the  thought,  but  he  was  comparing,  not 
without  dismay,  Leonardo's  two  renderings  of  the  Lord's  face. 
If  he  shut  his  eyes,  both  rose  before  him  like  living  things ; 
the  one  face  that  of  a  brother,  and  full  of  human  weakness, 
the  face  of  Him  who  had  agonised  in  bloody  sweat,  and  prayed 
a  childlike  prayer  for  a  miracle ;  the  other,  superhuman,  calm, 
wise,  alien,  and  terrible. 

And  Giovanni  thought  that,  perhaps,  notwithstanding  their 
inexplicable  contradiction,  the  one  was  a  likeness  no  less  true 
than  the  other. 

He  grew  confused,  as  if  delirium  were  returning,  and  sitting 


250  THE  FORERUNNER 

on  a  stone  above  the  black  canal  waters,  ne  bowed  himself  in 
exhaustion,  and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

'What  are  you  doing  here,  like  a  shade  on  the  banks  of 
Acheron  ? '  cried  a  mocking  voice ;  and  he  felt  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  turned,  and  saw  Cesare,  like  some  ill- 
omened  ghost,  in  the  wintry  twilight;  a  long,  lean  figure, 
with  a  long,  lean,  pale  face,  and  muffled  in  a  long  grey  cloak. 
Giovanni  rose,  and  they  moved  on  together,  the  dead  leaves 
rustling  under  their  feet. 

'  Does  he  know  we  ransacked  his  papers  ? '  asked  Cesare. 

'Yes.' 

'And  is  not  angered.  That  I  expected;'  and  Cesare 
laughed  maliciously.     *  Everlasting  pardon,  of  course  ! ' 

There  was  a  silence;  a  crow  flew  across  the  canal,  cawing 
hoarsely. 

'  Cesare/  said  Boltraffio  in  a  loud  voice,  '  have  you  seen 
the  face  of  the  Christ  in  the  Cenacolo  ? ' 

'  I  have.' 

'  And — what  think  you  of  it  V 

'  What  think  you  ? '  said  Cesare,  turning  abruptly  to  his 
companion. 

*  I  can  hardly  say ;  but  it  seems  to  me * 

'  Speak  frankly.     It  does  not  satisfy  you  ?' 

'  That  is  not  what  I  mean.  But  it  seems  to  me,  perhaps, 
that  it  is  not  Christ.' 

1  Not  Christ  ?    Who  then  else  ? » 

Giovanni  did  not  reply;  his  eyes  were  on  the  ground, 
and  without  knowing  it,  his  pace  slackened.  At  last  he 
said — 

'  That  other  sketch  in  coloured  chalk,  the  young  Christ — 
have  you  seen  that  ? ' 

'Yes.  A  Jewish  boy  with  chestnut  curls,  full  lips  and 
a  low  brow  ;  the  son  of  old  Barucco.    You  like  it  better  ?  \ 

'  No.  But  I  was  thinking  how  little  alike  they  are,  those 
two  pictures ! ' 

'  Little  alike  ?  But  it  is  the  same  face — fifteen  years  older, 
that  is  all !  However,  it  may  be  you  are  right.  They  may  be 
two  Christs,  but  as  like  each  other  as  a  man  and  his  own 
phantom.' 

'  As  a  man  and  his  own  phantom  ! '  echoed  Giovanni, 
shuddering  and  stopping.  '  What  say  you,  Cesare  ?  A  man 
and  his  own  phantom  ? ' 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  251 

•Well,  what  is  so  alarming  in  those  words?  Don't  you 
agree  with  me?' 

They  walked  on. 

*  Cesare ! '  cried  Boltraffio  suddenly  and  impulsively,  •  do 
you  not  see  what  I  mean  ?  How  could  He,  the  Omnipotent, 
the  Omniscient,  whom  Leonardo  has  painted  in  the  Cetiacolo, 
how  could  He  have  been  tortured  on  the  Mount  of  Olives, 
not  a  stone's  throw  away,  till  He  sweated  blood  and  prayed 
a  human  prayer  for  a  miracle?  "Let  not  that  take  place, 
to  accomplish  which  I  came  into  the  world,  that  which  I 
know  cannot  fail  to  be  !  Father,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me!" 
Cesare,  everything  is  contained  in  that  prayer  !  Without  it 
there  is  no  Christ,  and  I  would  not  relinquish  it  for  all  the 
wisdom  of  Solomon  !  The  Christ  who  prayed  not  that  prayer 
was  never  a  man ;  He  did  not  suffer  and  die  like  us  ! ' 

1 1  see  your  meaning,'  replied  Cesare  slowly ;  ■  certainly  the 
Christ  of  the  Cenacolo  never  prayed  that  prayer.' 

The  darkness  was  falling  around  them,  and  Giovanni  could 
not  accurately  see  the  face  of  his  companion,  which,  however, 
seemed  strangely  illuminated.  Suddenly  Cesare  stopped, 
raised  his  hand,  and  spoke  in  a  low  solemn  voice. 

'You  wish  to  know  whom  he  has  painted,  if  'tis  not 
the  weaker  Christ  who  prayed  for  a  hopeless  miracle  in  the 
garden  of  Gethsemane?  Well,  I  will  tell  you.  Remember 
that  beautiful  invocation  of  Leonardo's  when  he  spoke  of 
the  laws  of  the  mechanical  sciences,  "O  divine  justice  of 
Thee,  Thou  Prime  Mover ! "  His  Christ  is  the  Prime 
Mover,  who,  principle  and  centre  of  every  movement,  is 
Himself  moveless.  His  Christ  is  the  eternal  necessity,  which 
is  divine  justice,  which  is  the  Father's  will.  "O  righteous 
Father,  the  world  hath  not  known  Thee,  but  I  have  known 
Thee  and  I  have  declared  unto  these  Thy  name,  that  the 
love  wherewith  Thou  hast  loved  Me  may  be  in  them, 
and  I  in  them."  Do  you  see?  Love  born  of  knowledge. 
*  Grande  amore  e  figlio  di  grande  sapienza.  Great  love  is  the 
child  of  great  knowledge.  And  Leonardo,  who  alone  of  men 
has  understood  this  saying  of  the  Lord's,  has  incarnated  it  in 
his  Christ,  who  loves  all  because  he  knows  all.' 

Cesare  ceased,  and  for  long  they  walked  silently  in  the 
profound  calm  of  the  winter  twilight.  At  last  Boltraffio 
said : — 

'  Do  you  remember,  Cesare,  how  four  years  ago,  you  and 


252  THE  FORERUNNER 

I,  walking  along  this  path  together,  were  discussing  the 
Cenacolo?  Then  you  mocked  at  the  Master,  and  said  he 
would  never  finish  the  face  of  the  Christ,  and  I  contradicted 
you.  Now  it  is  you  who  defend  him  against  me.  Of  a 
surety  I  should  never  have  believed  that  you— you\  would 
one  day  speak  of  him  as  now  you  have  spoken  ! ' 

And  Giovanni  tried  to  see  his  companion's  face,  but  the 
other  turned  away. 

1  Now,  I  see  with  joy,  Cesare,  that  you  also  love  him !  Yes, 
you  love  him,  you  who  wish  to  hate  him;  you  love  him 
perhaps  better  than  do  I ! ' 

'Did  you  imagine  anything  else?'  replied  Cesare,  slowly 
turning  to  his  companion  a  pale  moved  face;  'and  yet  I 
would  indeed  be  glad  to  hate  him,  but  instead  I  must  love 
him,  for  he  has  done,  in  the  i  Last  Supper,'  what  no  one  has 
ever  done,  what  perhaps  he  himself  does  not  understand  so 
well  as  I — I,  his  most  mortal  enemy.'  And  Cesare  laughed 
a  forced  laugh.  'How  odd  is  the  human  heart ! '  he  went  on. 
1 1  will  confess  the  truth,  Giovanni ;  perhaps  I  love  him  less 
to-day  than  I  did  at  the  time  you  have  alluded  to.' 

'  Why  so,  Cesare  ? ' 

'  Perchance  because  I  value  my  own  individuality.  To  be 
lowest  among  the  lowest — yes,  better  that  than  to  be  but 
a  member  of  his  body,  a  toe  of  his  foot  1  Let  Marco  find 
contentment  in  ladles  for  the  measuring  out  of  paint,  and 
rules  for  the  proportions  of  noses,  /should  like  to  ask  with 
which  of  these  Leonardo  made  that  countenance  of  Christ ! 
True,  he  does  his  best  to  teach  us,  poor  chickens,  to  fly  like 
eagles  from  the  eagles'  nest;  for  he  is  compassionate,  and 
sorry  for  us,  as  he  is  sorry  for  the  blind  pups  in  the  yard,  or 
for  a  lame  horse,  or  for  the  criminal  whom  he  accompanies 
to  execution  that  he  may  watch  his  dying  convulsions.  Like 
the  sun,  he  shines  upon  everything.  Only,  see  you,  my  friend, 
each  man  hath  his  own  fancy ;  you  may  like  to  be  the  worm 
which,  in  St.  Francis'  fashion,  Leonardo  lifts  from  the  high- 
way and  sets  on  a  green  twig ;  I  'd  sooner  be  crushed  by  him  !' 

'Then,  Cesare,  if  you  feel  thus,  why  do  you  not  leave 
him?' 

'  And  you — why  do  you  not  leave  him  ?  You  have  burnt 
your  wings  like  a  moth  in  a  candle,  and  still  you  flutter 
round  the  flame.  Perchance  I  also  am  fain  to  burn  myself 
in  that  flame.     Yet,  maybe,  one  hope  remains  to  me  ! ' 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  253 

'What  hope?' 

*  A  foolish  hope.  The  dream  of  a  madman !  Yet  I  often 
dwell  upon  it.  The  hope  that  one  day  a  man  shall  arise, 
unlike  him,  yet  his  equal;  not  Perugino,  nor  Borgognone, 
nor  Botticelli,  nor  the  great  Mantegna — Leonardo  surpasses 
all  these;  but  another,  one  who  is  still  unknown,  reserved 
for  a  later  day.  I  would  fain  see  the  glory  of  this  new  one 
immense !  I  would  fain  look  in  the  face  of  Messer  Leonardo 
and  remind  him  that  even  a  spared  worm  like  me  can  prefer 
another  to  him,  can  be  pleased  in  the  humiliation  of  his  pride ; 
for,  Giovanni,  he  is  proud  as  Lucifer,  in  spite  of  his  lamb- 
like meekness  and  his  universal  charity.' 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  and  Giovanni  felt  his  hand  tremble. 

'Hark  you,  Giovanni,'  he  said  in  a  changed  voice,  'who 
told  you  I  loved  him  ?     You  never  guessed  it  ?  • 

'He  told  me  himself.' 

'  He  ?    Then  he  believes ' 

His  voice  broke.  Nothing  remained  to  be  said,  and  each 
was  lost  in  his  own  thoughts,  his  own  griefs.  At  the  next 
cross-road  they  parted. 

Giovanni,  with  eyes  on  the  ground,  walked  mechanically 
along  the  narrow  path  skirting  the  canal  in  whose  dark: 
waters  no  star  was  reflected.  He  repeated  to  himself,  scarce 
consciously,  ■  As  like  as  a  man  and  his  own  phantom !  His 
own  phantom ! ' 

XV 

At  the  beginning  of  March  1499,  and  at  the  moment  when  he 
least  expected  it,  Leonardo  received  his  salary,  which  had  been 
for  two  years  unpaid.  It  was  reported  at  this  time  that  II 
Moro,  overwhelmed  by  the  news  of  the  alliance  concluded 
against  him  by  the  Doge  of  Venice,  the  Pope,  and  the  King 
of  France,  intended  to  flee  to  the  German  Emperor  upon  the 
first  appearance  in  Lombardy  of  the  French  forces ;  and  that 
it  was  in  order  to  secure  the  fidelity  of  his  subjects  during  his 
absence  that  he  lightened  the  taxes,  paid  his  creditors,  and 
heaped  largesses  upon  his  friends.  A  little  later  Leonardo 
received  a  fresh  mark  of  his  patron's  favour :  the  gift  of  six- 
teen perches  of  vineyard  land,  acquired  from  the  monastery 
of  San  Vittore  near  the  Porta  Vercellina,  'which,'  so  ran  the 
deed  of  gift,  '  Ludovico  Maria  Sforza,  Duke  of  Milan,  con- 


254  THE  FORERUNNER 

fers  on  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  the  Florentine,  most  famous  of 
painters.' 

Leonardo  went  to  express  his  thanks  to  the  Duke,  and  was 
not  granted  an  interview  till  very  late  in  the  evening,  owing 
to  the  pressure  of  state  affairs.  II  Moro  had  passed  the 
whole  day  in  tedious  conversation  with  secretaries  and 
treasurers,  in  verifying  accounts  for  munition  of  war,  in 
loosing  old  knots  and  tying  new  ones  in  that  web  of  deceit 
and  treachery,  which  had  pleased  him  well  when  he  had  been 
the  spidery  master  of  the  threads,  but  which  was  another 
matter  now  he  found  himself  in  the  position  of  a  fly. 

His  business  despatched,  the  Duke  went  to  the  Gallery  of 
Bramante,  which  looked  down  upon  the  castle  moat.  The 
stillness  of  the  night  was  broken  at  times  by  the  blare 
of  a  trumpet,  by  the  challenge  of  sentinels,  by  the  clank  of 
the  drawbridge  chains.  As  soon  as  he  had  entered  the 
gallery,  his  page,  Ricciardetto,  fixed  torches  in  iron  sconces 
against  the  wall,  and  handed  his  master  a  gold  platter  with 
small  pieces  of  bread.  These  Ludovico  threw  to  the  swans 
which,  attracted  by  the  reflection  from  the  windows,  had 
come  sailing  over  the  black  mirror  of  the  water  in  the  moat. 
Isabella  d'Este,  his  lost  Beatrice's  sister,  had  sent  him  these 
swans  from  Mantua,  where  the  flat  shores  of  the  Mincio,  thick 
with  reeds  and  willow-trees,  were  a  renowned  breeding-place 
for  great  flocks  of  these  beautiful  birds.  Feeding  them  was 
his  chief  recreation  after  the  business  and  anxieties  of  the  day. 
They  reminded  him  of  his  childhood,  by  the  weed-grown  pools 
of  Vi.Gjevano ;  and  here  in  the  gloomy  castle  moat,  among 
frowning  embrasured  walls,  high  towers,  cannon  balls,  and 
bombards,  the  noiseless  snow-white  creatures,  gliding  like 
phantoms  through  the  silver  moonlit  mist  upon  the  scarce 
visible  water  in  which  stars  were  reflected,  seemed  to  him  full 
of  mystery  and  charm. 

Leaning  out  of  the  window,  and  still  absorbed  in  his 
amusement,  the  Duke  did  not  hear  the  creak  of  a  small  door, 
nor  notice  the  approach  of  a  chamberlain,  until,  with  a  deep 
reverence,  the  man  had  handed  him  a  paper. 

•What  is  this?'  asked  the  Duke? 

*  Messer  Borgonzio  Botta  sends  your  Excellency  the  account 
for  munition  of  war,  powder  and  bullets ;  he  is  grieved  that 
he  must  trouble  your  lordship,  but  at  dawn  the  convoy  starts 
for  Mortara.' 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  255 

II  Moro  snatched  the  paper  angrily,  crumpled  it,  and  threw 
it  aside. 

'  How  many  times  have  I  said  I  transact  no  business  after 
supper?  Good  God!  soon  I  shall  not  be  allowed  even  to 
sleep ! ' 

The  chamberlain,  still  bowing,  retreated  backwards, 
announcing  in  a  low  voice  which  the  Duke  need  not  hear 
unless  it  so  minded  him  : 

I  Messer  Leonardo.' 

*  Leonardo!  Why  not  have  brought  him  in  before? 
Conduct  him  hither  at  once.' 

And  returning  to  the  feeding  of  his  swans,  he  added  to 
himself,  '  Leonardo  will  not  worry  me  ! ' 

When  the  painter  entered,  II  Moro  smiled  at  him  much  as 
he  smiled  at  his  pets ;  and  when  Leonardo  would  have  knelt, 
restrained  him,  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

*  Welcome  !  'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen  you.  How  fare 
you,  friend  ? ' 

'I  have  to  thank  your  Excellency ' 

'  Enough !  Enough  !  You  are  worthy  of  better  gifts. 
Give  me  time,  and  I  will  recompense  you  properly.' 

Then  they  talked  of  the  diving-bell,  the  shoes  for  walking 
the  water,  the  wings.  But  when  Leonardo  would  have  diverted 
the  conversation  to  business,  to  the  fortifications,  the  Marte- 
sana  Canal,  the  casting  of  the  great  Cavallo,  Ludovico  evaded 
the  subject  with  an  air  of  disgust.  Suddenly,  as  if  remember- 
ing something,  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  abstraction,  oblivious  of  his 
companion's  presence,  sitting  quite  silent,  with  eyes  on  the 
ground,  and  Leonardo,  supposing  himself  dismissed,  would 
have  taken  his  leave.  The  Duke  nodded  absently,  but  when 
the  painter  had  reached  the  door  he  recalled  him,  and  laying 
both  his  hands  on  his  shoulders,  looked  at  him  with  a  long 
sad  gaze. 

'  Farewell,  my  Leonardo.  Who  knows  if  ever  again  we  shall 
see  each  other,  we  two  alone,  face  to  face,  as  at  this  minute ! ' 

'  Is  your  Excellency  going  to  abandon  us  ? ' 

II  Moro  sighed  heavily  and  paused  before  replying. 

'We  have  been  together  for  sixteen  years,'  he  said  at  last, 
'and  in  all  that  time  I  have  never  disapproved  you,  nor, 
I  think,  have  you  disapproved  me.  The  vulgar  may  murmur; 
yet  I  think  in  after  ages,  when  they  speak  of  Leonardo, 
they  will  have  a  good  word  for  II  Moro,  his  friend.' 


25G  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  painter,  who  did  not  like  outbursts  of  tenderness, 
replied  in  the  one  courtly  phrase  which  he  reserved  for 
moments  of  necessity : — 

1 1  would  I  had  more  than  a  single  life  to  dedicate  to  the 
service  of  your  Highness.' 

'I  believe  it,'  said  Ludovico;  'some  day,  Leonardo, 
perhaps  you  will  remember  me,  and  will  weep ' 

And  himself  scarcely  restraining  a  sob,  he  embraced  him, 
kissing  his  lips. 

'  Leave  me  now,  and  may  God  go  with  you  ! '  he  said ;  and 
after  Leonardo  had  gone  he  remained  long  in  the  Bramante 
Gallery,  where  no  sound  broke  the  stillness  save  the  slow 
droppings  from  the  torches,  watching  his  swans,  and  thinking 
strange  thoughts.  He  fancied  that  across  his  dark,  and  even 
criminal,  life  Leonardo  had  passed  like  these  white  swans 
across  the  black  waters  of  the  castle  moat,  under  those 
embrasured  walls,  towers,  and  magazines ;  Leonardo,  useless 
as  they,  delightful,  immaculate,  and  pure. 


XVI 

Late  as  was  the  hour,  the  artist,  having  left  the  Duke,  went 
to  the  Convento  of  Saint  Francis  to  inquire  for  his  pupil, 
Giovanni  Boltraffio,  who  was  lying  there  grievously  sick  of 
a  brain  fever. 

Visiting  his  former  teacher,  Fra  Benedetto,  in  December 
1498,  Giovanni  had  found  Fra  Paolo,  a  Dominican  from 
Florence,  with  him,  and  this  man  had  given  them  the  account 
of  Savonarola's  death. 

The  execution  —  thus  Fra  Paolo  related  —  had  been 
appointed  for  nine  of  a  May  morning,  to  take  place  in 
the  Piazza  della  Signoria,  exactly  where  had  been  the 
burning  of  vanities  and  the  ordeal  by  fire.  A  pyre  was 
raised  at  the  end  of  a  long  platform  ;  and  above  it  a 
gibbet — a  stout  beam  driven  into  the  ground,  with  a  cross- 
piece,  from  which  dangled  three  halters  and  iron  chains. 
No  effort  of  the  carpenters  could  prevent  this  erection  from 
looking  like  a  cross.  The  square,  the  loggias,  the  windows 
and  roofs  of  the  houses  were  thronged  by  as  great  a  multitude 
as  had  assembled  for  the  trial  by  fire.  The  condemned — 
Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  Fra  Domenico  da  Pescia,  and  Fra 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  257 

Silvestro  Maruffi — issued  from  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  advanced 
along  the  platform  and  stood  before  the  Bishop  of  Pagagliotti, 
the  papal  nuncio.  The  bishop  rose,  took  Savonarola's  hand, 
and  in  trembling  tones,  not  daring  to  meet  the  unfaltering 
gaze  of  the  monk,  he  pronounced  the  ritual  of  degradation. 
Almost  hesitatingly  he  uttered  the  concluding  words  :  '  Separo 
te  ab  Ecclesia  militante  atque  triumphante.1  (I  cut  you  off  from 
the  Church  militant  and  triumphant.) 

To  which  Fra  Girolamo  replied : — '  Militante,  non  tri- 
umphante ;  hoc  enim  tuum  non  est.  (From  the  Church  militant, 
yes;  from  the  Church  triumphant,  no;  that  is  not  within 
your  power !) 

The  three  brothers  were  unfrocked ;  then,  covered  merely 
with  their  under-tunics,  they  advanced  further  and  stood 
before  the  tribune  of  the  Apostolic  Commissaries  who 
pronounced  them  heretics  and  schismatics;  and  then  again 
before  the  '  Otto  Uomini  della  Repubblica  Fiorenti?ia'  (The 
Eight  of  the  Florentine  Republic),  who  solemnly,  in  the  name 
of  the  people,  pronounced  the  death  sentence.  During  this 
last  progress,  Fra  Silvestro  stumbled  and  nearly  fell,  and 
Fra  Domenico  and  Savonarola  likewise  were  seen  to  totter. 
Later  it  was  discovered  that  this  was  due  to  a  jest  of  certain 
of  the  Sacred  Troop  of  Youthful  Inquisitors,  who  had  crept 
under  the  planks  and  run  nails  through  them,  so  as  to 
wound  the  naked  feet  of  the  condemned. 

Fra  Silvestro,  the  imbecile,  was  the  first  taken  to  the 
scaffold.  With  his  customary  apathetic  expression,  seemingly 
unconscious  of  what  was  befalling  him,  he  ascended  the 
steps;  yet  when  the  hangman  put  the  noose  upon  his  neck 
he  cried,  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven  :  '  Lord,  into  Thy  hands  I 
commend  my  spirit.'  And  not  waiting  for  the  executioner's 
thrust,  he  leaped  deliberately  and  fearlessly  from  the  ladder. 
Then  Fra  Domenico,  who  had  expected  his  turn  with  joyous 
impatience,  immediately  on  receiving  the  signal,  sprang  to 
the  scaffold  smiling  ecstatically  as  if  summoned  to  Paradise. 

Fra  Silvestro's  body  hung  from  one  end  of  the  cross- 
beam, Fra  Domenico's  from  the  other;  the  centre  was  for 
Savonarola.  As  he  neared  the  place,  he  stood  still,  and 
looked  down  upon  the  crowd.  Then  there  was  a  silence, 
profound  as  once  in  the  Cathedral  of  Santa  Maria  del 
Fiore,  when  his  expectant  followers  awaited  the  commence- 
ment of  his  preaching.  But  now  he  said  no  word ;  and  the 
R 


258  THE  FORERUNNER 

halter  was  adjusted ;  then  a  voice  called  out  (and  no  one 
knew  if  it  were  mockery  or  the  wild  cry  of  agonising  faith) : 
1  Perform  a  miracle,  O  prophet !  Perform  a  miracle  ! '  But 
the  executioner  had  already  swung  off  the  martyr  from  the 
ladder. 

Then  an  old  workman,  whose  face  was  resigned  yet  full 
of  ascetic  fervour,  and  who  for  several  days  had  had  the 
custody  of  the  pyre,  crossed  himself  hurriedly  and  threw 
the  lighted  torch  upon  the  pile,  ejaculating,  as  Savonarola 
had  done  when  he  had  set  fire  to  the  'vanities  and 
anathemata' — 'In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the 
Holy  Ghost!' 

The  flames  leaped  into  the  air  j  but  the  wind  blew  strongly 
and  drove  them  in  the  contrary  direction  from  the  scaffold. 
Wherefore  the  crowd,  smitten  with  a  sudden  fear,  fell  into 
tumult,  and  swayed  hither  and  thither,  pressing  upon  and 
trampling  one  another,  and  bursting  into  the  cry :  '  They  burn 
not !  Lo !  a  miracle !  a  miracle  ! '  But  the  wind  fell  and  the 
flames  rose  straight  and  high,  and  licked  round  Fra  Girolamo's 
corpse.  And  the  cord  wherewith  his  hands  had  been  tied  was 
sundered  by  the  fire,  and  the  hands  fell  loose  and  dropped 
and  moved  in  the  flame ;  and  to  many  of  the  people  it  seemed 
that  for  the  last  time  he  blessed  them. 

When  the  fire  was  spent,  and  of  the  three  brothers  there 
remained  only  charred  bones  and  morsels  of  blackened  flesh 
quivering  on  the  iron  chains,  then  the  faithful  pressed  for- 
ward and  would  have  collected  relics  of  the  martyrs.  But 
the  guards,  driving  them  away,  piled  the  ashes  into  a  cart 
and  took  them  to  the  Ponte  Vecchio  with  intent  to  cast 
them  into  the  river.  And  on  the  way  thither  the  Piagnoni 
succeeded  in  snatching  some  few  handfuls  of  the  sacred 
ashes,  and  certain  rags  of  flesh  which  they  believed  to  have 
been  the  heart  of  their  murdered  prophet. 

Fra  Paolo  ended  his  recital ;  and  he  showed  his  hearers 
a  little  purse  in  which  he  had  saved  some  of  these  sacred 
ashes.  Fra  Benedetto  kissed  it  again  and  again,  watering  it 
with  his  tears ;  then  the  two  monks  went  together  to  vespers. 
When  they  returned  to  the  cell,  they  found  Giovanni  lying 
senseless  on  the  ground  before  the  crucifix,  clutching  the 
little  casket  of  ashes  in  his  frozen  fingers. 

For  three  months  the  young  man  lay  between  life  and 
death;   and  Fra  Benedetto  never  left  him  day  nor  night. 


THE  SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499  259 

He  was  long  delirious,  and  the  good  monk  shuddered  as 
he  listened  to  his  wanderings.  He  raved  of  Savonarola, 
of  Leonardo,  of  that  blessed  Mother  of  God,  who,  drawing 
with  her  finger  on  the  sand  of  the  desert,  taught  the  divine 
Child  geometrical  figures  and  the  laws  of  eternal  necessity. 

*  For  what  dost  Thou  pray  ? '  the  sick  man  would  repeat 
with  unutterable  grief:  '  Knowest  Thou  not  that  there  is  no 
relief — no  miracle — ?  The  cup  cannot  pass  from  Thee; 
even  as  a  straight  line  cannot  fail  to  be  the  shortest  way 
between  two  points.' 

He  was  haunted  by  the  vision  of  the  two  faces  of  the 
Lord,  unlike,  yet  like  as  a  man  and  his  own  phantom;  the 
one  overborne  with  human  woe  and  weakness,  who  in  His 
agony  had  prayed  for  a  miracle;  the  other  the  face  of  the 
Omnipotent,  of  the  Omniscient;  of  the  Word  made  flesh, 
of  the  Prime  Mover.  They  were  turned  towards  each  other 
like  irreconcilable  and  eternal  foes.  And  while  Giovanni 
gazed  at  them,  gradually  the  one  Face,  that  of  the  Lamb 
of  God,  gentle,  sorrowful,  long-suffering,  became  obscured; 
and  changed  into  the  face  of  the  demon  which  Leonardo  had 
once  drawn,  caricaturing  Savonarola.  And  this  demon-face, 
denouncing  the  semblance  of  the  Omnipotent,  named  him 
Antichrist. 

Fra  Benedetto's  loving  care  saved  the  life  of  his  adopted 
son.  By  the  beginning  of  June  Giovanni  had  so  far  recovered 
as  to  be  able  to  walk;  and  then,  notwithstanding  all  the 
warnings  and  the  entreaties  of  the  affectionate  monk,  he 
returned  to  Leonardo's  studio. 

Towards  the  close  of  July  the  army  of  Louis  xn.  of 
France,  commanded  by  Marshal  d'Aubigny,  Louis  of  Luxem- 
burg, and  Gian  G;acomo  Trivnlzio,  crossed  the  Alps  and 
burst  down  upon  the  plains  of  Lombardy. 


BOOK    X 


CALM   WATERS — I499-150O 

'  Le  onde  sotiore  e  luminose  sono  governate  dalle  stesseleggi che  governano 
k  onde  delle  acque:  Vangolo  incidente  deve  eguagliare  tangolo  rtjflettente.* 

Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(The  waves  of  light  and  sound  are  governed  by  the  same  mechanical 
law  as  that  governing  waves  of  water :  the  angle  of  incidence  equals  the 
angle  of  reflection.) 

'  //  duca  ha  perso  lo  Stato  e  la  roba  e  la  liberta  ;  e  nessuna  sua  opera  si 
finiper  luV  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(The  duke  has  lost  state,  wealth,  and  liberty ;  not  one  of  his  works  will 
be  finished  by  himself.) 


The  Duke's  treasury,  a  subterranean  chamber  very  long  and 
narrow  and  piled  with  huge  oak  chests,  was  entered  from  the 
north-west  tower  of  the  Rocchetta  by  a  small  iron  door  set 
in  the  thickness  of  the  wall  and  adorned  with  an  unfinished 
painting  by  Leonardo.  On  the  first  night  of  September 
1499,  Messer  Ambrogio  Ferrari  the  court  treasurer,  and 
Messer  Borgonzio  Botta  the  comptroller  of  the  ducal  revenue, 
with  their  assistants,  shovelled  coins,  pearls,  and  other 
treasures  hastily  from  the  oak  chests,  threw  them  into  leathern 
bags,  which  they  sealed  with  the  ducal  seal,  and  consigned  to 
servants  to  be  packed  upon  mules.  Already  two  hundred 
and  forty  bags  had  been  sealed  and  thirty  mules  had  been 
loaded,  yet  the  guttering  candles  still  showed  that  the  chests 
contained  great  heaps  of  silver.  II  Moro,  meanwhile,  sat  at 
a  portable  writing-desk  heaped  with  registers  and  account- 
books,  but  gazed  blankly  at  the  flame  of  the  candle,  and 
paid  no  attention  to  the  work  of  the  treasurers.  Since  the 
terrible  news  had  reached  him  of  the  defeat  of  Galeazzo 
200 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1 500  261 

Sanseverino,  the  commander  of  his  forces,  and  of  the  in- 
evitable nearing  of  the  French,  he  seemed  to  have  fallen  into 
some  strange  torpor  which  resembled  insensibility. 

Presently  Ambrogio  Ferrari  inquired  whether  the  Duke 
wished  to  take  the  gold  and  silver  plate  also ;  but  Ludovico, 
after  frowning  and  apparently  making  an  effort  to  attend, 
turned  away,  waved  his  hand,  and  once  more  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  candle.  The  question  was  repeated,  but  this 
time  he  did  not  even  feign  attention;  and  presently  the 
treasurers,  unable  to  obtain  an  answer,  went  away.  II  Moro 
remained  alone. 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  old  chamberlain  announced 
Messer  Bernardino  da  Corte,  the  newly  appointed  com- 
mandant of  the  fortress.  The  Duke  roused  himself,  passed 
his  hand  over  his  brow,  and  bade  his  approach. 

Ludovico,  distrustful  of  the  scions  of  great  families,  liked 
raising  men  from  nothing,  making  the  first  last,  and  the 
last  first.  This  Bernardino  was  the  son  of  a  footman,  and 
had  himself  in  his  boyhood  worn  the  court  livery.  The  Duke 
had,  however,  exalted  him  to  the  highest  offices  of  state,  and 
now,  as  a  proof  of  final  confidence  in  his  ability  and  good 
faith,  had  charged  him  with  the  defence  of  the  castle  of 
Milan,  his  last  stronghold. 

The  Duke  received  the  new  governor  graciously,  bade  him 
sit,  spread  before  him  the  plan  of  the  castle,  explained  the 
signals  concerted  between  the  fortress  and  the  town.  For 
example,  in  the  daytime  a  curved  gardening  knife  (or  at 
night  a  flaming  torch)  displayed  from  the  main  tower  of  the 
castle  was  to  show  the  need  for  instant  help ;  a  white  sheet, 
hung  on  the  tower  of  Bona,  signified  treachery  within  the 
walls ;  a  chair  suspended  by  a  rope  meant  lack  of  powder ; 
a  petticoat,  lack  of  wine ;  a  pair  of  breeches,  scarcity  of 
bread  ;  an  earthenware  pot,  the  need  of  a  doctor. 

II  Moro  had  himself  invented  this  code,  and  was  childishly 
pleased  with  it,  as  if  in  it  lay  somehow  his  chief  hope  of 
safety. 

c  Remember,  Bernardino/  thus  he  concluded  his  exordium, 
'everything  has  been  foreseen.  You  have  sufficiency  of 
money,  powder,  provisions,  firearms ;  the  three  thousand 
mercenaries  are  already  paid ;  the  fortress  is  in  your  hands, 
and  should  be  able  to  stand  a  three  years'  siege.  I,  however, 
only  ask  you  to  hold  it  for  three  months ;  if  at  the  end  of  that 


262  THE  FORERUNNER 

time  I  have  not  returned  to  your  relief,  you  must  do  what 
you  think  best.  Now  you  know  all.  Farewell,  my  son  ;  may 
the  Lord  protect  you ! '  And  he  favoured  him  with  an 
embrace. 

The  governor  of  the  castle  dismissed,  II  Moro  bade  the 
page  prepare  his  camp  bed.  He  prayed,  and  laid  himself 
down,  but  sleep  proved  impossible.  He  lighted  a  candle, 
took  a  packet  of  papers  from  his  wallet,  and  found  a  poem 
by  one  Antonio  Cammelli  da  Pistoia,  Bellincioni's  rival,  who 
on  the  first  appearance  of  the  French  had  deserted  his  patron. 
The  poem  represented  the  war  between  Ludovico  and 
Louis  xii.  as  a  conflict  between  a  winged  serpent  and  a 
cock : — 

Italia's  lord,  we  lay  to  heart  thy  fate, 

For  good  it  is  to  learn  by  other  men's  undoing. 

O  bitter  word  to  speak,  the  loss  of  all  things  rueing— 

When  fickle  fortune  smiled,  I  was  a  potentate  ! 

The  world  to  Ludovico  seemed  a  fief  but  late ; 

Itself  and  all  its  glory  appeared  but  of  his  doing  ; 

Yet  Heav'n,  his  stomach  high  and  proud  presumption  viewing, 

His  every  hope  and  scheme  did  suddenly  frustrate.' 

The  Duke's  soul  was  pervaded  by  melancholy,  which  was 
not,  however,  entirely  disagreeable.  It  was  partly  the  pride 
of  a  martyr.  He  remembered  the  servility  of  the  sonnets 
the  same  poet  had  dedicated  to  him  not  long  ago : — 

'  Speak,  potent  lord,  and  say,  The  world  to  me  is  given  1 ' 

It  was  midnight,  and  the  flame  of  the  dying  candle  flickered 
and  grew  dim,  but  still  the  Duke  continued  to  pace  the 
gloomy  room,  thinking  of  his  griefs,  of  the  injustice  of  blind 
fortune,  of  the  ingratitude  of  men. 

'What  wrong  have  I  done  them?  Why  do  they  hate  me? 
They  call  me  a  villain  and  an  assassin ;  but  what  have  I  done 
more  than  Romulus  who  killed  his  brother,  and  Caesar,  and 
Alexander,  and  all  the  heroes  of  antiquity?  Were  they 
villains  and  assassins  ?  My  desire  was  to  give  them  a  new 
age  of  gold,  such  as  had  not  been  seen  since  the  days  of 
Augustus  and  the  Antonines.  A  little  longer,  and  under  my 
rule  Italy  would  have  been  united ;  the  laurels  of  Apollo 
would  have  bloomed,  and  the  olives  of  Pallas ;  the  reign  of 
peace  would  have  begun,  and  the  worship  of  the  muses. 
First  among  princes,  I  sought  greatness  not  in  deeds  of  war, 
but  in  the  fruits  of  golden  peace,  in  the  protection  of  talent 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  263 

Bramante,  Pacioli,  Caradosso,  Leonardo,  and  how  many  others! 
In  days  to  come,  when  the  noise  of  arms  shall  be  forgotten, 
their  names  will  be  remembered,  together  with  the  name  of 
Sforza.  To  what  a  height  should  not  I,  the  new  Pericles, 
have  raised  my  new  Athens,  but  for  this  horde  of  northern 
barbarians  who  have  cut  short  my  work  ?  Why,  O  my  God 
why  is  this  permitted  ? ' 

And,  his  head  drooping  on  his  breast,  he  thought  again  of 
the  lines  : — ■ 

'O  bitter  word  to  speak,  the  loss  of  all  things  rueing— 
When  fickle  fortune  smiled,  I  was  a  potentate  ! ' 

The  candle  flared  for  the  last  time,  illuminating  the 
vaulting  of  the  roof,  and  the  fresco  of  Mercury  above  the 
treasure-house  door.  Then  it  sank  down  and  went  out. 
The  Duke  shuddered,  for  he  thought  it  a  bad  omen.  Fearful 
of  awakening  Ricciardetto,  he  groped  his  way  to  the  bed,  lay 
down  again,  and  this  time  fell  asleep  at  once. 

He  dreamed  that  he  knelt  to  Madonna  Beatrice,  who 
having  discovered  his  intrigue  with  Lucrezia  was  taxing  him 
with  it,  and  striking  him  full  in  the  face.  He  was  pained,  yet 
rejoiced  that  she  had  returned  to  life.  He  submitted  to  her 
chastisement,  caught  her  hands  that  he  might  kiss  them,  and 
wept  for  love.  But  suddenly  there  stood  before  him,  not 
Beatrice,  but  the  Mercury  of  Leonardo's  fresco  over  the  door 
The  god  seized  him  by  the  hair,  crying : — 

*0  fool,  and  blind!  In  what  dost  thou  yet  hope?  Will 
all  your  deceits  save  you  from  the  just  punishment  of  God  ? 
Murderer  and  villain  ! ' 

When  he  awoke,  the  morning  light  was  shining  on  the 
windows.  The  lords,  the  knights,  the  captains,  the  German 
mercenaries,  who  were  to  escort  him  to  the  court  of 
Maximilian,  in  all,  some  three  thousand  horsemen,  were 
awaiting  his  presence  by  the  main  road  which  led  north — 
towards  the  Alps. 

Ludovico  mounted,  and  rode  to  the  Monastery  delle 
Grazie,  that  he  might  pray  for  the  last  time  beside  the  grave 
of  his  lost  Beatrice.  Later,  when  the  sun  was  high  in  the 
heavens,  the  cortege  began  its  march  through  Como,  Bellaggio, 
Bormio,  Bolzano,  and  Brisina,  to  the  Tyrol,  and  the  city  of 
Innsbruck. 


264  THE  FORERUNNER 


II 


The  journey  took  over  a  fortnight,  for  a  rainy  autumn  had 
spoiled  the  roads.  On  the  18th  of  September,  the  Duke, 
being  fatigued  and  indisposed,  determined  to  pass  the  night 
in  a  mountain  cave,  which  afforded  shelter  to  a  few  herdsmen. 
It  would  not  have  been  difficult  to  find  a  more  commodious 
resting-place,  but  II  Moro  deliberately  chose  this  wild  spot 
for  his  reception  of  the  ambassador  from  Maximilian.  The 
watch-fires  illumined  the  stalactites  and  the  natural  vaulting 
of  the  cavern ;  pheasants  were  roasting  for  supper ;  and  the 
Duke,  seated  on  a  camp-chair,  his  feet  on  a  brazier,  and  his 
head  muffled — for  he  was  suffering  from  toothache — reflected, 
not  without  a  certain  satisfaction,  on  the  greatness  of  his 
misfortunes.  Lucrezia  Crivelli,  bright  and  gentle  as  ever, 
was  preparing  an  anodyne  of  wine,  pepper,  cloves,  and  other 
potent  spices  for  the  illustrious  sufferer. 

*  So,  then,  Messer  Odoardo,'  said  II  Moro  to  the  Emperor's 
envoy, '  you  can  tell  his  Majesty  where,  and  in  what  condition 
you  found  the  legitimate  ruler  of  Lombardy.' 

Ludovico  was  in  one  of  the  fits  of  loquacity  which  some- 
times succeeded  to  long  periods  of  silence  and  dejection. 
*  Foxes  have  holes,'  he  went  on,  '  and  birds  of  the  air  have 
nests,  but  I  have  not  where  to  lay  my  head.  Corio,'  he 
turned  to  the  chronicler,  'in  compiling  your  annals  omit  not 
description  of  this  lodging,  the  refuge  of  the  last  heir  of  the 
great  Sforzas,  of  the  descendant  of  Anglus,  the  Trojan,  the 
comrade  of  ^Eneas.' 

'My  lord,'  said  Odoardo,  'your  misfortunes  deserve  the 
pen  of  a  new  Tacitus.' 

Lucrezia  brought  the  anodyne,  and  the  Duke  paused  to 
look  at  her  admiringly.  Her  pale  clear  face  was  bright  in 
the  rosy  glow  of  the  firelight,  her  black  hair  coiled  smoothly 
above  her  pure  forehead,  upon  which  glowed  the  single 
diamond  of  the  ferroniera.  She  looked  at  her  lover  with  her 
grave,  innocent,  and  observant  eyes ;  on  her  lips  was  a  smile 
of  almost  maternal  tenderness. 

1  Sweet  heart ! '  thought  Ludovico, '  here  is  one  who  will  never 
betray  me  ! '  and  receiving  the  medicament  from  her  hand,  he 
again  turned  to  the  chronicler  and  said,  with  swelling  senten- 
tiousness  :  '  Corio,  set  down  likewise  this ;  "  true  friendship  is 
proved  in  the  furnace  of  affliction,  as  gold  is  proved  in  the  fire." ' 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  265 

'Eh,  old  fellow,  why  so  gloomy?'  cried  Janachi,  seating 
himself  at  the  Duke's  feet,  and  slapping  his  knee,  'a  truce  to 
this  black  bile  !  There 's  remedy  for  every  ill  save  death, 
and  trust  me,  old  man,  it 's  better  to  be  a  living  ass  than  a 
dead  prince  1  Kiki  riki !  Look !  look  !  what  a  throng  of  ass- 
saddles  we  have  here  ! ' 

'Well,  what  of  it?'  asked  the  Duke,  wearily. 

* Moro  mio,  moro  mio,  there's  an  old  story  which  says — ' 

*  Well — go  on ;  relate  the  story  ! ' 

The  fool  jumped  to  his  feet,  ringing  his  bells  and  shaking 
his  rattle. 

'Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  king  in  Naples,  and 
he  bade  Giotto  the  painter  make  him  a  wall-picture  of 
his  kingdom.  And  the  saucy  painter  drew  a  stout  Ass 
carrying  on  his  back  a  Saddle  with  the  royal  arms,  the 
sceptre,  and  the  crown;  and  the  Ass  was  sniffing  at  another 
Saddle,  also  emblazoned  with  arms,  sceptre  and  crown. 
Wherefore,  dear  Sir,  I  say  to  thee,  to-day  the  people  of  Milan 
are  sniffing  at  the  French  Saddle.  Let  them  alone  !  Soon 
enough  will  it  gall  their  backs,  and  they  '11  wish  to  be  quit  of  it ! ' 

1  Siulti  aliquando  sapientesj  said  the  Duke,  with  a  melan- 
choly smile  at  this  piece  of  imbecility.  '  Corio,  write  in  the 
chronicle ' 

But  he  did  not  finish  the  phrase,  for  the  snorting  of  horses, 
the  tramp  of  hoofs,  and  the  buzz  of  voices  were  heard  outside 
the  cavern.  Mariolo  Pusterla  the  chamberlain,  his  face  pale 
and  agitated,  entered  hastily,  and  whispered  with  Calco  the 
chief  secretary. 

'What  has  happened?'  asked  the  Duke. 

No  one  was  willing  to  reply,  and  all  eyes  fell. 

'Your  Excellency '  began  the  secretary,  in  trembling 

tones,  and  broke  oft. 

'  May  the  Lord  support  your  Excellency ! '  said  Luigi 
Marliani.     'Be  prepared ;  bad  news  has  arrived  from  Milan.' 

'Speak,  then;  speak!  For  God's  sake,  speak !'  cried 
Ludovico,  turning  pale.  Then  looking  towards  the  entrance, 
he  caught  sight  of  a  man  splashed  with  mud,  and  travel- 
worn.  The  Duke  brushed  Marliani  aside,  hurried  to  the 
messenger,  and  snatching  a  letter  from  his  hand,  broke  the 
seal,  read  with  lightning  glance,  uttered  a  cry,  and  sank 
senseless  to  the  ground.  Marliani  and  Pusterla  were  barely 
in  time  to  break  his  fall. 


2C6  THE  FORERUNNER 

On  the  17th  of  September,  the  feast  of  San  Satiro,  the 
traitor  Bernardino  da  Corte  had  opened  the  gates  of  the 
Castle  of  Milan  to  the  French  marshal,  Gian  Giacomo 
Trivulzio. 

Ludovico  was  practised  in  the  simulation  of  diplomatic 
faintness.  This  time,  however,  the  physicians  had  trouble  in 
restoring  him  to  consciousness.  When  at  last  he  regained 
his  senses,  he  sighed,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
murmured  : — 

'  Since  Judas  there  never  was  a  traitor  like  Bernardino  da 
Corte.' 

And  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  did  not  utter  a  single 
word. 

A  few  days  later  the  Duke  arrived  at  Innsbruck,  where  he 
was  graciously  received  by  the  Emperor  and  lodged  in  the 
imperial  palace.  One  evening  he  was  walking  up  and  down 
his  chamber,  and  dictating  to  Bartolomeo  Calco  credentials 
for  the  envoys  whom  he  was  secretly  despatching  to  the 
Sultan.  The  face  of  the  old  secretary  expressed  nothing  but 
attention,  and  his  pen  travelled  rapidly  over  the  paper,  as 
the  words  fell  from  his  master's  lips. 

• "  Firm  and  invariable  in  our  good  disposition  towards  your 
Highness"' — so  ran  the  document — '"and  trusting  that  in 
the  task  of  recovering  our  lost  dominions,  we  may  look  for 
aid  to  the  magnanimity  of  the  powerful  ruler  of  the  Ottoman 
Empire,  we  have  resolved  to  send  three  different  messengers 
by  three  different  roads,  so  that  at  least  one  of  them  may 
arrive  and  present  our  letter.  The  Pope,  who  by  nature  is 
perfidious  and  wicked "  ' 

Here  the  pen  of  the  dispassionate  secretary  stopped ;  he 
looked  up,  wrinkling  his  brows.  He  could  not  believe  his 
ears. 

'The  Pope?' 

1  Yes,  the  Pope.     Go  on.' 

The  secretary  looked  at  his  work  again,  and  the  pen 
scratched  faster  than  before. 

'  "The  Pope,  being  by  nature  wicked  and  perfidious,  has 
instigated  the  French  king  to  carry  war  into  Lombardy."' 

Then  came  the  list  of  French  victories. 

' "  Dismayed  by  these  misfortunes," '  continued  II  Moro 
frankly, '"  we  have  judged  it  prudent  to  seek  refuge  at  the  court 
of  the  Emperor  Maximilian,  while  awaiting  the  assistance  of 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1 500  267 

your  Highness.  All  have  betrayed  us ;  but  more  than  the 
rest,  Bernardino"' — here  his  voice  shook — '"Bernardino 
da  Corte,  a  strpent  warmed  in  our  bosom,  a  slave  whom  we 
had  heaped  with  favours  and  benefactions;  a  traitor  like 
unto  Judas  " — Nay,  'tis  vain  to  speak  of  Judas  to  an  infidel; 
scratch  out  "  Judas." ' 

He  prayed  the  Sultan  to  assail  Venice  by  sea  and  by  land, 
assuring  him  of  easy  victory  and  the  complete  destruction  of 
that  secular  enemy  of  the  Ottomans,  the  arrogant  Republic 
of  St.  Mark. 

"'And  we  pray  your  Highness  to  remember," '  he  con- 
cluded, '"that  in  this  war,  as  in  every  other  undertaking, 
all  we  have  is  at  the  disposal  of  your  Highness,  who  in  all 
Europe  will  find  no  more  faithful  ally  than  Ourselves."' 

He  had  approached  the  table  and  seemed  desirous  of 
adding  yet  another  few  words;  but  in  a  sudden  access  of 
discouragement  he  waved  his  hand,  and  threw  himself  on  a 
seat.  Calco  carefully  strewed  the  wet  writing  with  sand; 
then  he  looked  up  and  saw  that  the  Duke  had  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  was  weeping,  his  shoulders  shaking 
with  sobs. 

'Lord,  why  hast  thou  permitted  this?  Where,  where  is 
Thine  eternal  justice?'  he  mourned.  Then  uncovering  his 
distorted  face,  which  at  that  moment  seemed  to  belong  to 
some  feeble  old  woman,  he  said : — 

'  Bartolomeo,  you  know  that  I  repose  confidence  in  you. 
Tell  me,  on  your  conscience,   am  I  acting  wisely?' 

'  Does  your  Excellency  refer  to  the  embassy  to  the  Grand 
Turk?' 

II  Moro  nodded. 

The  old  man  wrinkled  his  forehead  and  puffed  his  lips 
meditatively. 

'  Certes,  those  who  hunt  with  wolves  must  howl  with  them ; 
yet  if  we  look  at  the  matter  from  another  point  of  view — in 
fine,  if  I  am  permitted  to  counsel  your  Excellency,  I  would 
say,  wait ! ' 

1 1  have  waited.  Now  I  will  demonstrate  that  the  Duke  of 
Milan  is  not  to  be  tossed  aside  like  a  mere  pawn.  My  friend, 
I  have  been  ever  on  the  side  of  right,  and  I  have  been  most 
iniquitously  abused.  Who  shall  blame  me  if  I  appeal,  not 
only  to  the  Grand  Turk,  but  to  the  very  devil  himself?' 

'Yet  an  invasion  by  the  infidel,'  suggested  the  secretary, 


268  THE  FORERUNNER 

'might  perchance  be  cause  of  grave' peril  to  the  Christian 
Church.' 

1  God  forbid,  Bartolomeo !  I  have  considered  that.  I 
would  suffer  a  thousand  deaths  rather  than  bring  damage  to 
our  holy  Mother  Church.  But  hark  you  !  You  do  not  fully 
understand  my  design/ 

At  these  words  his  lips  took  on  their  old  rapacious  smile. 
'  We  will  brew  these  villains  such  a  broth,'  he  continued  ;  'we 
will  entangle  them  in  such  nets,  that  none  of  them  shall  look 
again  on  God's  world  !  But  the  Grand  Turk  ! — why,  the  Grand 
Turk  is  no  more  than  a  tool  in  my  hands  !  When  the  time  is 
ripe  we  will  cast  him  aside,  and  then  we  will  root  out  all  that 
vile  sect  of  Mahometans,  and  free  the  sacred  sepulchre  of  the 
Lord  from  the  unclean  domination  of  infidel  dogs  ! ' 

Calco  discreetly  lowered  his  eyes  and  made  no  answer. 

1  This  is  bad,'  he  said  to  himself;  '  these  are  dreams ;  in  all 
this  there  is  no  policy.  He  lets  himself  be  carried  too  far, 
and  he  perceives  not  consequences.' 

But  that  night  Ludovico,  animated  by  hope  in  God  and  in 
the  Grand  Turk,  prayed  long  before  his  favourite  picture, 
by  Leonardo,  in  which  the  Virgin  was  pourtrayed  with  the 
features  and  smile  of  Cecilia,  Countess  Bergamini. 


Ill 

Ten  days  before  the  surrender  of  the  castle,  the  French 
marshal,  Trivulzio,  had  made  entry  into  Milan  amid  the 
pealing  of  bells  and  the  acclamation  of  the  populace. 
The  king's  entry  was  fixed  for  the  6th  of  October,  and  the 
citizens  were  preparing  for  his  reception.  The  two  great 
angels  which,  fifty  years  earlier  in  the  days  of  the  '  Repubblica 
Ambrosiana,'  had  represented  the  genii  of  popular  liberty, 
were  taken  from  the  cathedral  treasury  for  use  in  the  royal 
procession.  Long  disuse  had  stiffened  the  springs  by  which 
their  gilded  wings  were  moved,  and  they  were  accordingly 
sent  for  repair  to  the  court  mechanician,  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

Early  one  autumnal  morning,  while  it  was  still  dark, 
Leonardo  sat  at  his  desk,  busy  with  his  calculations  and 
his  geometrical  designs.  Of  late  he  had  resumed  his  study 
of  aerostatics,  and  was  constructing  another  flying-machine. 
Its  skeleton  was  spread  across  the  room,  not,  like  its  prede- 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  -  *59 

cessor,  resembling  a  bat,  but  rather  a  gigantic  swallow.  One 
of  the  wings  was  completed;  slender,  sharply  outlined, 
beautiful  in  form  and  texture,  it  rose  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
and  under  its  shadow  Astro  was  working  at  the  two  wooden 
angels  of  the  former  Milanese  Republic.  In  this  latest 
apparatus  Leonardo  had  determined  to  follow,  as  closely  as 
he  might,  the  structure  of  those  winged  creatures  which 
nature  had  provided  as  models  for  a  flying-machine.  He  still 
hoped  to  solve  the  problem  by  close  observance  of  mechanical 
laws ;  but  though  apparently  he  knew  all  that  could  be  known, 
there  was  still  something  which  eluded  his  comprehension, 
and  which  perhaps  lay  outside  these  laws  with  which  he  was 
so  familiar.  As  in  his  earlier  experiments,  he  found  himself 
brought  up  against  that  subtle  dividing  line  which  separates 
the  creations  of  nature  from  the  work  of  human  hands ;  the 
structure  of  the  living  body  from  the  structure  of  the  lifeless 
machine ;  and  he  began  to  think  he  was  aiming  at  the  impos- 
sible— the  irrational. 

*  Thank  God,  that  is  finished  ! '  exclaimed  Astro,  winding 
up  the  springs  of  the  wooden  angels. 

Their  heavy  wings  moved,  and  in  the  resultant  waft  of  air, 
the  delicate  wing  of  the  great  swallow  stirred  and  rustled. 
The  smith  looked  at  it  with  inexpressible  tenderness. 

'The  time  I  have  squandered  on  these  stupid  monsters!' 
he  exclaimed,  pushing  the  angels  away.  'From  this  out, 
Master,  you  may  say  what  you  please,  but  I  will  not  go  from 
this  room  till  I  have  finished  my  swallow  !  Give  me,  pr'ythee, 
the  design  for  the  tail.' 

1  It  is  not  ready,  Astro.    It  demands  further  calculation.' 

'  But,  Master,  you  promised  it  to  me  three  days  ago  ! ' 

'  It  cannot  be  helped.  The  tail  of  our  bird  is  the  rudder. 
The  smallest  mistake  will  ruin  the  whole.' 

'  You  know  best,  I  suppose  !  I  will  get  on  with  the  second 
wing.' 

1  We  had  better  wait.  It  may  be  necessary  to  introduce 
some  modification.' 

The  smith  very  carefully  lifted  the  cane  skeleton,  overlaid 
with  a  network  of  bullocks'  tendons;  he  turned  it  round,  and 
contemplated  it  under  every  aspect.  Then,  his  voice  thick 
and  trembling  with  excitement,  he  cried  : — 

'  Master,  be  not  wroth,  but  hear  !  If  your  calculations  lead 
you  to  the  conclusion  that  this  machine  also  is  useless,  I 


270  THE  FORERUNNER 

swear  to  you  that  none  the  less  /  intend  to  fly.  Yes,  I  will 
fly  in  spite  of  all  your  damnable  mechanics.  I  have  no 
longer  patience  for  waiting,  because ' 

He  stopped  short.  Leonardo  gazed  at  the  wide,  irregular, 
obstinate  face,  impressed  with  a  single,  senseless,  all-absorbing 
idea. 

'Messere,'  he  added,  more  quietly,  'be  so  kind  as  to  say 
plainly,  are  we  going  to  fly,  or  are  we  not?' 

Leonardo  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  him  the  naked  truth. 

'  We  cannot  be  quite  certain  till  we  have  made  the  experi- 
ment,' he  replied ;  '  but  I  think  we  shall  fly.' 

1  That  is  enough ;  I  ask  no  more,'  said  the  mechanic, 
clapping  his  hands.  'If  you  say  we  shall  fly,  then  the  thing 
is  done.' 

He  presently  burst  into  a  great  laugh. 

1  What  the  devil  amuses  you  ? '  asked  Leonardo. 

'Ah,  forgive  me,  Master!  I  am  always  disturbing  you. 
But  when  I  fall  a-thinking  of  the  poor  folk  of  Milan,  and  of 
the  French  soldiers,  and  II  Moro,  and  the  king,  I  have  to 
laugh  because  I  feel  so  sorry  for  them.  Poor  little  creep- 
ing worms,  poor  little  jumping  grasshoppers  !  Always  on  the 
same  plot  of  earth  to  which  they  are  chained  by  their  fe<.  t, 
they  fight  and  they  bite  each  other,  and  they  think  they  are 
doing  some  very  great  thing  !  How  they  will  stare  and  gape 
when  they  see  men  alive  and  flying.  I  misdoubt  that  they 
will  believe  their  eyes.  "  These  be  two  gods,"  they  will  say. 
Astro,  a  god!  I  doubt  the  whole  world  will  be  changed.  I 
doubt  wars  and  laws  will  be  done  with,  and  masters  and  slaves. 
We  cannot  conceive  how  it  will  be  !  Soaring  up  to  heaven 
like  the  choirs  of  angels,  all  the  people  will  shout  Hosanna ! 
O  Messer  Leonardo,  Messer  Leonardo  !  is  it  true  that  verily 
thus  it  will  be?' 

He  spoke  wildly,  like  one  in  delirium. 

'  Poor  fool ! '  thought  Leonardo ;  ■  what  blind  faith !  What 
is  to  be  done?  How  can  I  tell  him  the  truth?  He  will  go 
crazed ! ' 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  great  knock  at  the  street  door, 
then  a  noise  of  voices  and  steps,  and  then  a  rap  at  the  door 
of  the  studio. 

'  What  devil  comes  at  this  hour?'  growled  Astro.  'A  pox 
on  him  !  Who  is  there  ?  You  won't  see  the  Master.  He  has 
gone  away  from  Milan.' 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  271 

c  'Tis  I,  Astro — Luca  Pacioli,  the  mathematician  !  Open, 
open,  for  God's  sake  ! ' 

The  smith  opened  and  let  the  friar  enter.  His  face  was 
blanched  with  terror.  Leonardo  asked  him  hurriedly  what 
had  happened. 

'To  me,  Messer  Leonardo,  nought — or  leastways  of  that 
I  will  speak  later.  I  come  from  the  castle.  Oh,  Messer 
Leonardo  !  The  Gascon  bowmen — in  fact  the  French — I 
saw  it  with  my  own  eyes  !  They  are  destroying  your  Cavallo. 
Let  us  run !    Let  us  run  ! ' 

'  Soft ! '  said  the  painter,  though  he  also  had  paled.  '  What 
shall  we  do  by  running  ? ' 

'  But  you  cannot  sit  here  with  folded  hands  while  your 
masterpiece  is  perishing?  I  have  a  recommendation  to 
Monsieur  de  la  Tremouille.     We  must  implore  him ' 

*  We  are  too  late.' 

•  No,  no !  there  is  still  time  !  We  can  run  by  the  garden, 
through  the  hedge.     If  we  but  make  haste  ! ' 

Dragged  along  by  the  monk,  Leonardo  set  forth  for  the 
castle.  On  the  way  Fra  Luca  told  him  of  his  own  mis- 
adventure. The  lanzknechts  had  plundered  the  cellar  of  the 
Canonica  of  San  Simpliciano,  where  he  dwelt ;  and  being 
drunken,  had  wrought  havoc  through  the  house ;  and  in  Fra 
Luca's  cell,  having  chanced  on  certain  geometrical  models 
made  in  crystal,  had  taken  them  for  instruments  of  magic, 
and  smashed  them  to  atoms. 

•  My  poor  innocent  crystals,  which  had  done  them  no  manner 
of  wrong,'  mourned  the  friar !  Reached  the  piazza  before 
the  castle,  they  saw  a  young  French  dandy  attended  by  a 
numerous  suite  on  the  drawbridge. 

1  Maitre  Gilles ! '  cried  Fra  Luca  overjoyed ;  and  he  ex- 
plained to  Leonardo  that  this  was  a  considerable  and  authori- 
tative personage;  his  title,  'Whistler  to  the  woodhens,'  his 
office,  to  teach  the  finches,  magpies,  parrots,  and  thrushes  of 
the  most  Christian  king  their  feats  of  singing,  talking, 
dancing,  and  other  performances.  Rumour  asserted  that  the 
'woodhens' were  not  the  only  bipeds  who  danced  to  the 
piping  of  Maitre  Gilles ;  and  altogether  Fra  Luca  had  long 
felt  that  he  must  be  presented  with  his  books  (richly  bound) 
De  Divina  Proportion*  and  Summa  Aritmeiica. 

'Fra  Luca,'  said  Leonardo,  'do  not  lose  your  opportunity 
— attend  Maitre  Gilles.     I  can  manage  my  own  case.' 


272  THE  FORERUNNER 

c  No,  no,'  said  the  other,  somewhat  ashamed,  ■  I  can  wait ; 
or  I  will  just  fly  to  him  for  an  instant  and  learn  whither  he 
is  going,  and  in  a  trice  I  will  be  back  with  you — go  you  on 
towards  Monsieur  de  la  Tremouille.' 

And  gathering  up  the  skirts  of  his  brown  habit,  his  bare 
feet  shod  with  clattering  wooden  pattens,  the  nimble  monk 
ran  after  the  *  Whistler  to  the  Woodhens ' ;  while  Leonardo 
crossed  the  drawbridge  and  entered  the  inner  court  of  the 
castle. 

IV 

The  morning  mists  were  rising,  and  the  watchfires  already 
dying  down.  The  courtyard  was  crowded  with  cannon, 
ammunition,  camp  equipage,  stable  provender  and  refuse. 
All  around  were  movable  booths  and  cooking-spits,  empty 
barrels  serving  as  card-tables,  hogsheads  of  wine,  barrows 
of  provisions  ;  great  noises  of  laughter,  curses,  quarrellings  in 
many  tongues,  blasphemies,  drunken  shoutings  and  songs. 
At  times  an  interval  of  sudden  stillness  when  officers  of  rank 
passed.  At  times  drums  beat  and  brazen  trumpets  gave  signal 
to  the  Rhenish  and  Suabian  lanzknechts,  or  Alpine  horns  were 
blown  from  the  walls  by  mercenaries  from  the  Free  Cantons 
of  Uri  and  Unterwalden. 

Making  his  way  through  the  crowd  of  men  and  things, 
Leonardo  reached  the  centre  of  the  square  and  found  that 
the  Colossus,  the  happy  labour  for  years  of  his  maturest  art, 
was  still  intact.  The  great  duke,  conqueror  of  Lombardy, 
Francesco  Attendolo  Sforza,  with  his  bald  head,  in  form  like 
that  of  some  Roman  emperor,  and  his  expression  of  leonine 
cruelty  and  vulpine  cunning,  erect  as  ever,  still  sat  his  huge 
plunging  charger  and  trampled  on  his  foe. 

A  great  crowd  of  archers  of  various  nationalities  surrounded 
the  statue, disputing  each  in  his  own  language,  and  gesticulating. 
Leonardo  gathered  that  a  contest  was  imminent  between 
a  French  and  a  German  marksman,  who,  after  drinking 
four  tankards  of  wine  were  to  shoot  at  a  distance  of  fifty 
paces  at  the  birthmark  on  the  cheek  of  the  great  Sforza. 
The  paces  were  measured ;  lots  were  drawn  as  to  who 
should  shoot  first;  the  wine  was  poured  out.  The  German 
drank  the  fill  of  a  tankard  without  drawing  breath,  another, 
and  another,  and  another.  Then  he  took  his  aim,  bent  the 
bow,  launched  his  arrow,  and  missed  the  mark.     The  arrow 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  273 

grazed  the  cheek,  and  took  off  the  tip  of  the  left  ear,  but  did 
no  further  damage.  It  was  now  the  turn  of  the  Frenchman. 
He  had  brought  his  arbalist  to  his  shoulder,  when  a  commo- 
tion arose  among  the  onlookers.  The  crowd  divided,  making 
space  for  the  procession  of  a  knight  and  his  escort  of  resplen- 
dent followers.     He  rode  past,  not  heeding  the  marksmen. 

1  Who  is  that  ? '  inquired  Leonardo. 

'Monseigneur  de  la  Tremouille.' 

'Then  I  am  in  time,' thought  the  artist;  'I  must  pursue 
him  and  make  supplication.' 

Nevertheless  he  actually  stood  motionless  where  he  was ; 
oppressed  by  an  inability,  a  paralysis  of  the  will,  that  would 
have  hindered  the  stirring  of  a  finger  had  his  very  life 
been  in  danger.  Repugnance,  shame,  seized  him  at  the 
thought  of  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd  that  he  might, 
like  Fra  Luca  Pacioli,  run  after  and  pull  at  the  skirts  of  a 
person  of  quality.  The  Gascon  shot  his  arrow ;  it  whizzed 
through  the  air,  hit  the  mark,  and  penetrated  deeply  into  the 
mole  on  Francesco's  cheek. 

'Bigorre!  Bigorrel  Montjoie !  Saint  Denis/'  shouted  the 
soldiers,  throwing  their  caps  into  the  air,  '  Vive  la  France!1 
The  noisy  crowd  again  encircled  the  Colossus,  the  jargon  of 
many  tongues  broke  forth  anew ;  a  fresh  match  was  arranged, 
and  again  arrows  whistled  on  the  air  and  wounded  the  great 
Duke.  Leonardo  could  not  move.  Inconceivable  as  it  may 
seem,  rooted  to  the  spot  as  in  some  hideous  dream,  he  watched 
the  slow  destruction  of  the  work  of  the  six  best  years  of  his 
life;  of  perhaps  the  greatest  monument  of  the  sculptor's  art 
since  the  days  of  Phidias  and  Praxiteles.  Under  a  hail  of 
bullets,  arrows,  and  even  stones,  the  brittle  clay  was  broken 
off  in  lumps  or  resolved  into  dust ;  the  supports  were  laid  bare. 
The  Colossus  had  become  an  immense  iron  skeleton. 

The  sun  streamed  out  from  behind  a  bank  of  clouds. 
Nothing  remained  but  the  headless  body  of  a  man,  the 
trunk  of  a  horse,  the  fragment  of  a  sceptre,  and  the  in- 
scription on  the  pedestal.  '  Behold  a  god  ! '  Just  then  the 
commandant  of  the  French  troops,  the  old  Marshal  Gian 
Giacomo  Trivulzio,  rode  up.  He  looked  at  the  place  of  the 
Colossus,  stopped  in  sheer  astonishment,  looked  again,  shad- 
ing his  eyes  from  the  sun ;  then  turned  to  his  attendants  and 
asked — 

'  In  the  name  of  God,  what  has  taken  place  ? ' 
S 


274  THE  FORERUNNER 

*  MonseigneurJ  replied  a  lieutenant,  *  Captain  Cockburn 
gave  permission  to  his  cross-bowmen * 

1  The  Sforza  monument  1  the  work  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci — ! 
made  a  target  for  the  archers  of  Gascony ! '  cried  the  marshal, 
and  he  rushed  at  the  men,  who,  intent  on  their  work  of  destruc- 
tion, had  not  observed  his  displeasure ;  seized  a  Frenchman  by 
the  collar  and  flung  him  to  the  ground,  rating  him  soundly. 
In  his  fury  the  old  general  had  become  quite  purple. 

*  Monseigneur'  stammered  the  soldier,  struggling  to  his 
knees,  shaking  with  fright,  '  Monseigneur,  we  did  not  know ! 
Captain  Cockburn  had  said ' 

'To  hell  with  your  Captain  Cockburn!  I'll  hang  every 
man  jack  of  you  ! 

He  flourished  his  sword  and  would  have  wounded  some  one 
had  not  Leonardo  caught  his  wrist  with  such  force  that  the 
brazen  sword-hilt  was  bent. 

Trivulzio  stared  at  the  stranger  in  dire  amazement  while 
struggling  to  free  himself. 

'  Who  is  this  man  ? '  he  exclaimed  indignantly,  and  the 
artist  himself  replied : — 

Leonardo  da  Vinci.' 

'And  how  do  you  dare '  began  the  old  marshal,  still 

beside  himself,  but  meeting  the  clear  unfaltering  gaze  of  the 
eyes  fixed  upon  him,  he  broke  off.  '  Eh  ?  you  are  Leonardo  ? ' 
he  said.  '  I  pray  you  loose  my  arm — you  have  crushed  the 
hilt.* 

*  Monseigneur,'  said  Leonardo,  *I  beseech  you. — Pardon 
these  poor  fools ! ' 

The  marshal  again  stared  in  amazement ;  then  smiled,  and 
shook  his  head. 

*  A  strange  fellow  !     What  ?     You  entreat  for  them  ? ' 

1  If  your  Excellence  hangs  every  mother's  son  among  them, 
what  will  it  profit  me  ?    They  knew  not  what  they  did.' 

The  old  man  became  thoughtful,  then  his  face  cleared,  and 
his  small  intelligent  eyes  shone  with  good  nature. 

'  Hark  ye,  Messer  Leonardo  !  There  is  one  thing  passes 
me.  How  could  you  stand  there  stock-still,  looking  on? 
Why  did  you  not  complain  to  me?  or  to  Monseigneur  de  la 
Tremouille  ?     He  must  have  passed  by  within  an  hour ! ' 

Leonardo  looked  down  and  reddened.     'I   was   not   in 

time,'  he  stammered,   'I 1  don't  know  Monsieur  de  la 

Tremouille.' 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  275 

"Tis  a  misfortune/ said  the  old  man;  and  surveying  the 
ruin,  he  exclaimed  with  great  vehemence,  '  I  would  have  given 
a  hundred  of  my  best  troopers  for  your  Colossus  ! ' 

On  his  way  home,  Leonardo  crossed  the  bridge  just  under 
Bramante's  loggia,  the  scene  of  his  last  interview  with  the 
Duke.  Pages  and  grooms  were  chasing  the  swans  which  were 
so  dear  to  II  Moro ;  and  the  poor  creatures  unable  to  escape 
from  the  moat,  fluttered  and  screamed  in  agonies.  The  water 
was  flecked  with  down  and  snowy  feathers;  here  and  there 
on  its  blackness  floated  a  white  blood-stained  body.  One 
newly-wounded  bird  stretched  its  graceful  neck  in  the  con- 
vulsions of  death,  uttering  piercing  cries  and  flapping  its 
weakening  wings,  as  if  in  a  last  vain  effort  for  flight.  Leonardo 
averted  his  eyes  and  hurried  away. 


Louis  xii.  made  his  entry  into  the  Lombard  capital  punctu- 
ally on  the  6th  of  October.  Great  crowds  assembled  to  see 
the  procession  ;  and  the  newly-mended  angels  of  the  Milanese 
Commune  waved  their  gilded  wings  to  the  admiration  of  all. 

Leonardo  had  not  touched  his  flying-machine  since  the 
day  of  the  destruction  of  the  Cavallo  ;  but  Astro  still  laboured 
at  it  indefatigably,  now  and  then  looking  reproachfully  at  the 
Master  with  his  one  eye,  in  which  blazed  fires  of  zeal  and 
hope. 

One  morning  Pacioli  came  running  with  a  message  from 
the  king,  summoning  Messer  Leonardo  to  the  castle.  The 
artist  was  unwilling  to  leave  Astro,  for  he  had  not  con- 
fessed that  the  new  apparatus  was  a  failure,  and  he  feared 
lest  the  enthusiast  should  endanger  his  neck  in  some  rash 
experiment.  However,  he  set  forth,  and  presently  arrived  at 
the  Sala  delta  Rocchetta  where  Louis  XII.  was  receiving  the 
magistrates  and  chief  citizens  of  the  city. 

Leonardo  looked  at  his  new  sovereign  with  attention,  but 
discovered  nothing  regal  in  his  aspect.  He  was  lean  and 
feeble,  with  narrow  shoulders,  a  hollow  chest,  and  a  face 
curiously  wrinkled.  Evidently  used  to  suffering,  it  had  con- 
ferred on  him  neither  nobility  nor  grace;  his  virtues  were  at 
best  of  the  bourgeois  type. 

A  young  man,  twenty  years  of  age,  dressed  simply  in  bbck, 
stood  on  the  first  step  of  the  throne.     He  wore  no  ornaments 


276  THE  FORERUNNER 

except  a  few  pearls  in  the  looping  of  his  hat,  and  the  gold 
chain  of  the  Order  of  St.  Michael :  his  face  was  pale,  his  flaxen 
hair  was  worn  long,  and  he  had  dark  blue  eyes,  soft,  but 
singularly  penetrating  and  observant. 

'Tell  me,  Fra  Luca,'  whispered  Leonardo,  'who  is  that 
young  noble?' 

'  Caesar  Borgia,  the  son  of  the  pope,  the  Duke  of  Valentinois,' 
replied  the  monk. 

Leonardo  was  not  ignorant  of  the  crimes  imputed  to  this 
young  man.  There  was  little  doubt  that  he  had  murdered 
his  brother  in  order  that,  exchanging  the  cardinal's  purple  for 
the  title  of  Gran  Gonfaloniere  of  the  Roman  Church,  he 
might  himself  have  the  chief  place  in  the  family  honours. 
Further,  the  whisper  ran,  that  the  motive  of  the  fratricide  was 
not  ambition  only,  but  a  monstrous  rivalry  between  the 
brothers  for  the  favour  of  their  sister  Lucrezia. 

'That,  at  least,  is  impossible,'  thought  Leonardo,  looking  at 
the  calm  face  and  clear  soft  eyes. 

Caesar  probably  felt  Leonardo's  scrutinising  gaze,  for  he 
turned  and  asked  his  secretary  some  question,  pointing  at  the 
artist  as  he  spoke.  The  secretary,  a  man  of  venerable  aspect, 
replied  in  a  whisper,  and  Caesar  in  his  turn  looked  intently  at 
Leonardo,  while  a  subtle  smile  played  upon  his  lips. 

'  Nay,  it  is  not  impossible,'  thought  the  artist,  answering  his 
own  hasty  judgment;  'anything  is  possible  to  that  face; 
perhaps  even  worse  than  we  have  heard.' 

The  spokesman  of  the  town  syndics,  having  finished  the 
reading  of  a  long  and  tedious  document,  approached  the 
throne  and  presented  the  parchment  to  the  king.  Louis 
accidentally  dropped  it,  and  before  the  citizen  could  pick 
it  up,  Caesar  had  stooped  dexterously  and  quickly,  had  lifted 
the  roll,  and  placed  it  in  the  king's  hand. 

'  He  never  loses  an  opportunity,'  grumbled  some  one  stand- 
ing near  Leonardo. 

'You  are  right,'  responded  another;  'the  pope's  son  under- 
stands the  arts  of  service.  You  should  see  him  of  a  morning 
at  the  king's  dressing !  He  warms  his  shirt  for  him  !  I 
daresay  he  'd  be  ready  even  to  wash  out  the  stable.' 

Leonardo  also  had  observed  Caesar's  too  obsequious  action, 
which  seemed  to  him  terrible  rather  than  servile,  like  the 
caress  of  a  wild  beast ;  but  he  was  no  longer  permitted  to 
play  the  part  of  a  spectator,  for  Pacioli  dragged  him  forward 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  277 

and  presented  him  to  the  king  with  a  short  speech  made 
up  of  superlatives — '  stupendissimo  1  prestantissimo  !  invinci- 
bilissimo  ! '  and  the  like.  Louis  spoke  at  once  of  the  Cenacolo% 
praising  the  figures  of  the  Apostles,  and  waxing  enthusiastic 
over  the  perspective  of  the  roof.  Fra  Luca  was  quite  sure 
his  Majesty  had  a  post  ready  to  offer  to  the  great  artist;  but 
unluckily  at  this  moment  a  page  brought  in  letters  from 
France,  and  the  king's  attention  was  engrossed  by  the  nevs 
that  his  loved  wife,  Anne  of  Brittany,  had  been  delivered  of  a 
princess.  The  courtiers  crowded  round  with  their  congratu- 
lations, and  Leonardo  and  Pacioli  were  pushed  into  the  back- 
ground. Pacioli  would  again  have  dragged  his  friend  forward, 
but  Leonardo  objected,  and  presently  left  the  palace. 

On  the  drawbridge  he  was  overtaken  by  Messer  Agapito, 
Borgia's  secretary,  who  by  command  of  his  master  offered  him 
the  post  of  ' Ingegner  ducale7  (chief  engineer),  which  he  had 
already  filled  under  II  Moro. 

Leonardo  said  he  would  reply  after  a  few  days'  reflection, 
and  went  on  towards  his  house. 

Presently  he  saw  a  crowd  of  people,  and  hurried  his  steps 
with  a  presentiment  of  disaster.  The  fear  was  well  grounded ; 
his  pupils  Giovanni,  Marco,  Salaino,  and  Cesare,  unable  to 
procure  a  litter,  were  carrying  the  unfortunate  Astro  on 
the  broken  wing  of  the  new  and  ill-fated  flying-machine,  his 
garments  bloodstained  and  torn,  his  face  white  as  death. 
Leonardo  guessed  at  once  what  had  occurred.  The  smith, 
great  in  resolution  and  in  faith,  had  adventured  on  the 
machine.  He  had  fitted  the  apparatus  to  his  shoulders,  and 
leaped  into  the  air.  Then  he  had  fallen,  and  would  probably 
have  been  killed  had  not  one  of  the  wings  caught  in  the  boughs 
of  a  tree.  Leonardo  helped  to  carry  the  poor  wretch  home  ; 
with  his  own  hands  he  laid  him  on  a  bed  and  bent  over  him 
to  examine  his  hurts.  Astro  recovered  from  his  swoon,  and 
looking  up  with  supplicating  eyes,  murmured — 

'  O  Master !  Forgive ! ' 


VI 

Louis  xii.  celebrated  the  birth  of  his  daughter  with  great 
feasts,  and  a  solemn  thanksgiving  mass  was  performed  in  the 
cathedral.     The  city  was  quiet,  and  all  seemed  peaceful  and 


17*  THE  FORERUNNER 

prosperous.  Having  exacted  an  oath  of  fealty  from  his  new 
subjects,  he  appointed  Marshal  Trivulzio  his  viceroy,  and 
returned  to  France  early  in  November. 

The  calm  was,  however,  deceitful ;  Trivulzio  soon  made  him- 
self detested  by  his  cruelty  and  greed ;  the  adherents  of  the 
banished  Ludovico  took  heart,  and  inflamed  the  people  by 
liberal  distribution  of  seditious  letters.  Soon  those  who  had 
sent  II  Moro  forth  with  objurgations  and  jeers,  proclaimed 
him  the  best  and  wisest  of  sovereigns. 

Towards  the  end  of  January  a  crowd  wrecked  the  offices  of 
the  tax-collector  beside  the  Porta  Ticinese ;  next  day  there 
was  noting  near  Pavia.  The  cause  of  the  latter  disturbance 
was  an  attempt  made  by  a  French  soldier  on  the  chastity  of  a 
peasant  girl,  who  struck  her  assailant  with  a  broom  handle  and 
was  then  threatened  by  him  with  an  axe.  She  screamed ;  her 
father  ran  up  with  a  cudgel  and  was  killed  by  the  soldier. 
Then  the  crowd  fell  upon  the  soldier  and  he  was  killed ;  after 
which  the  French  drew  on  the  populace  and  sacked  the 
village. 

When  the  news  of  this  outrage  reached  Milan  it  acted  like 
a  spark  upon  gunpowder.  The  people  poured  into  the 
squares,  the  streets,  the  market-places,  shouting  '  Down  with 
the  king !  Down  with  Trivulzio !  Death  to  the  foreigners ! 
Viva  II  Moro  /  ' 

The  French  troops  were  too  few  to  withstand  attack  from 
the  three  hundred  thousand  inhabitants  of  Milan.  Trivulzio 
placed  guns  upon  the  tower  which  for  the  present  was  in  use 
as  the  cathedral  belfry,  but  before  giving  the  order  to  fire 
on  the  crowd  he  tried  one  more  effort  at  pacification. 
He  was  hustled,  hunted  into  the  Palazzo  del  Comune,  and 
would  have  perished  there  but  for  the  timely  intervention 
of  the  Swiss  mercenaries.  Then  ensued  burning  and  pillag- 
ing; torture  and  murder  of  all  foreigners  and  their  sympa- 
thisers who  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  citizens.  On  the  ist  of 
February  Trivulzio  fled,  leaving  the  fortress  in  charge  of  the 
Captains  d'Espe  and  Codecara.  That  very  night  II  Moro 
returned  from  Germany,  and  was  received  with  great  joy 
by  the  town  of  Como ;  all  Milan  anxiously  awaited  him  as 
its  saviour. 

In  these  last  days  of  the  revolt,  when  the  streets  were  being 
wrecked  on  all  sides  by  the  cannonade,  Leonardo  transferred 
his  household  to  the  ample  cellars  of  his  house,  contriving 


CALM  WATERS— 1 499- 1 500  279 

living-rooms  of  tolerable  comfort,  and  storing  everything  of 
value  :  pictures,  drawings,  manuscripts,  scientific  instruments. 

He  had  definitely  resolved  to  enter  Caesar  Borgia's  service, 
and  was  to  present  himself  in  Romagna  not  later  than  the 
summer  of  1500;  meanwhile  he  proposed  to  visit  his  friend, 
Girolamo  Melzi,  at  his  villa  of  Vaprio  in  the  vicinity  of  Milan, 
living  there  in  retirement  till  the  disturbances  were  at  an  end. 
On  the  morning  of  February  the  2nd,  the  Feast  of  the  Purifi- 
cation, Fra  Luca  brought  him  the  tidings  that  the  castle  had 
been  flooded.  A  Milanese,  Luigi  da  Porto,  who  had  been  in 
Trivulzio's  service,  had  deserted  to  the  rebels,  first  opening  all 
the  sluices  which  fed  the  moats  of  the  fortress.  The  water 
spread  over  the  circumjacent  lands,  reaching  to  the  walls 
of  the  Rocchetta ;  and,  making  its  way  into  the  magazine 
and  provision  stores,  almost  forced  the  French  to  surrender, 
which  was  precisely  what  Messer  Luigi  had  hoped.  The 
flood  had  also  overflowed  the  canal,  had  inundated  the 
low  lying  suburb  of  Porta  Vercellina,  where  was  situated 
the  Monastery  delle  Grazie.  Fra  Luca  expressed  grave  fears 
for  Leonardo's  Cenacolo  and  offered  to  go  with  him  and  see  how 
it  fared. 

The  painter,  feigning  indifference,  replied  that  he  was  too 
busy,  and  that  he  believed  the  height  of  the  fresco  would 
preserve  it  from  injury.  No  sooner,  however,  was  he  rid  of 
Pacioli  than  he  hastened  to  the  convent  refectory,  on  the  brick 
floor  of  which  pools  were  still  left,  and  where  there  was  a 
pervading  odour  of  miasma  and  stagnant  water.  A  monk  told 
him  that  the  flood  had  risen  to  the  fourth  of  a  cubit. 

The  Cenacolo  had  not  been  painted  in  water-colours,  accord- 
ing to  the  usage  for  fresco ;  such  process  requiring  a  rapidity 
of  execution  alien  to  Leonardo's  genius. 

'A  painter  who  has  no  doubts  will  have  small  success,'  he 
used  to  say ;  and  for  his  doubts,  his  vacillations,  his  experi- 
ments, corrections,  and  extreme  slowness,  only  the  medium  of 
oil  was  suitable.  It  was  in  vain  that  experienced  masters 
told  him  that  oil  paints  were  impossible  for  a  damp  wall 
standing  on  the  verge  of  a  marsh.  His  love  of  experiment, 
and  of  new  paths  and  devices  induced  him  to  disregard  all 
warnings ;  he  mixed  his  paints  in  a  special  way,  and  prepared 
the  wall  by  coating  it  first  with  clay,  varnished  and  oiled, 
then  with  a  mixture  of  mastic,  pitch  and  plaster. 

Having  dismissed  the  monk,  Leonardo  crossed  the   still 


28o  THE  FORERUNNER 

soaking  refectory  floor,  and  stepped  close  to  examine  his 
picture.  The  transparent  and  delicate  colours  seemed  un- 
injured, and  not  even  blurred;  however  he  took  a  magnifying- 
glass  and  explored  the  surface  in  every  part.  To  his  dismay, 
there  in  the  left-hand  corner,  just  where  the  tablecloth  was 
represented  hanging  in  ample  folds  by  the  feet  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew, he  discovered  a  small  crack;  beside  it  the  colours  were 
already  fading,  and  on  the  surface  was  a  white  velvety  patch, 
scarce  observable,  but  th<j  beginning  of  mould.  Sudden  pale- 
ness overspread  Leonardo's  features;  he  composed  himself, 
however,  and  continued  his  examination  with  minuter  care. 
Very  soon  he  realised  what  had  happened.  The  first  coating  of 
varnished  clay  had  bulged  in  consequence  of  the  damp  and 
had  come  away  from  the  wall,  raising  the  upper  coating 
of  plaster  which  carried  the  paint;  and  in  the  plaster  tiny 
almost  invisible  cracks  had  formed,  through  which  a  salt 
sweat  exuded  from  the  porous  brickwork.  The  Cenacolo  was 
doomed.  The  colours  might  last  forty  or  fifty  years  and 
Leonardo  himself  never  see  their  decay,  but  it  was  impossible 
to  doubt  that  this  his  greatest  work  must  irretrievably  perish. 
He  stood  looking  at  the  face  of  his  Christ ;  realising  for  the 
fijBt  time  how  dear  to  him  was  this,  his  supreme  creation. 

The  ruin  of  the  Cenacolo,  the  destruction  of  the  Cavallo, 
snapped  the  last  threads  which  bound  him  to  men,  which 
united  him  to  friends  perhaps  still  unborn.  His  soul  had  long 
been  solitary;  now  his  solitude  was  deeper  than  before.  The 
clay  of  the  Colossus,  resolved  into  dust,  was  the  sport  of  the 
winds  of  heaven ;  mould  was  gathering  on  the  very  counten- 
ance of  the  Lord,  dimming  its  outline,  blurring  and  fading 
its  colours.  All  that  had  been  his  very  life  was  vanishing  as  a 
shadow. 

He  came  away,  leaving  the  monastery  without  speaking  to 
any  one ;  made  his  way  to  his  deserted  house,  and  descended 
to  the  place  of  refuge  underground.  He  passed  through  the 
room  where  lay  the  unfortunate  Astro,  and  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  speak  to  Giovanni  who  was  preparing  a  compress 
for  the  sick  man's  brow. 

*  Fever  again  ? '  asked  the  Master. 

'Yes;  he  is  delirious.' 

Leonardo  watched  the  bandaging,  and  listened  for  a  few 
minutes  to  the  rapid  disconnected  babble  which  came  from 
the  lips  of  the  poor  broken  enthusiast. 


CALM  WATERS— 1 499-1 500  281 

4  Higher !  Higher !  Straight  to  the  sun — so  long  as  the 
wings  don't  catch  fire!  Ha  !  little  one  !  who  are  you?  What 
is  your  name  ?  Mechanics  ?  That  is  a  scurvy  name  !  I  never 
heard  of  a  devil  named  Mechanics !  What  are  you  jeering  at? 
Is  it  a  joke  ?  That 's  enough  now  ;  you  have  had  your  joke, 
and  I've  done  with  you.  Ah  ! — Lift  me  !  Lift  me  !  I  can 
bear  no  more !  Let  me  just  get  my  breath.  Oh  —  death  and 
damnation  ! '  His  face  was  anguished ;  cries  of  terror  burst 
from  his  lips ;  he  fancied  himself  falling  into  the  abvss.  But 
this  passed  and  the  rapid  babbling  recommenced. 

*  No,  no  !  mock  not !  The  fault  was  mine  own.  He  told 
me  they  were  not  ready.  Ay,  he  said  so.  I  have  betrayed 
the  Master  !     I  have  betrayed  the  Master  !     Hush  !     Hush ! 

0  yes,  I  know  him  !  the  smallest  and  the  heaviest  of  all  the 
devils — the  little  one  nnmed  Mechanics.' 

Leonardo,  leaning  over  the  bed,  could  not  avert  his  gaze. 
He  was  thinking — 

*  Here  is  another  man  whom  I  have  destroyed.' 

He  laid  his  hand  on  Astro's  burning  forehead.  It  appeared 
to  calm  him,  little  by  little  he  became  quieter,  and  presently 
he  sank  into  heavy  sleep.  Leonardo  retired  to  his  under- 
ground cell,  and  buried  himself  in  his  calculations.  He  was 
now  studying  the  laws  of  the  wind,  and  the  aerial  currents,  and 
comparing  them  with  the  laws  of  the  waves  and  currents  of  the 
sea — all  still  with  reference  to  this  question  of  flight. 

'If  you  throw  two  stones  of  equal  size  into  a  pool,  at  a  little 
distance   from    each   other,' — he    said   slowly   to    himself — 

1  two  widening  circles  will  be  formed  on  the  surface  of  the 
water.  Then  will  come  a  moment  in  which  the  first  circle 
will  meet  the  second;  will  it  enter  and  bisect  it?  or  will 
the  waves  be  refracted  at  their  point  of  contact  ?  I  answer, 
taking  my  stand  on  experience  :  the  two  circles  will  intersect 
each  other,  remaining,  however,  distinct  and  keeping  their 
respective  centres  at  the  points  where  the  stones  fell.' 

The  simplicity  with  which  nature  had  solved  this  mechanical 
problem  filled  him  with  enthusiasm :  '  How  subtle  is  this ! 
How  beautiful ! ' 

He  made  a  calculation,  and  the  result  added  to  his  convic- 
tion that  the  mathematical  sciences,  with  their  laws  founded 
on  the  essential  necessities  of  reason,  justified  the  natural 
necessities  of  mechanics. 

Hour  after  hour  flew  by  unnoticed,  and  evening  came  on. 


a82  THE  FORERUNNER 

After  supper,  and  relaxation  in  talk  with  his  pupils,  he  again 
set  to  work.  The  acumen  and  lucidity  of  his  thoughts 
convinced  him  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  some  great 
discovery. 

'Behold  how  the  wind,  blowing  across  the  fields,  drives 
waves  over  the  rye,  one  succeeding  the  other,  while  the  stalks, 
though  they  bend,  remain  fixed  in  the  ground !  In  like 
manner  do  the  waves  run  over  the  immovable  water.  The 
ripple  caused  by  the  throwing  of  a  stone,  or  by  the  force  of 
the  wind,  should  rather  be  called  a  shiver  than  a  movement 
of  the  water.  And  of  this  you  may  persuade  yourself  by 
throwing  a  straw  into  the  widening  rings  of  wavelets,  and 
watching  how  it  rises  and  falls,  but  does  not  leave  its 
place.' 

This  experiment  with  the  straw  reminded  him  of  a  similar 
test  which  he  had  applied  when  studying  the  waves  of  sound. 
He  mused — 

'The  striking  of  a  bell  will  induce  a  slight  quiver  and  a 
low  resonance  in  a  neighbouring  bell ;  a  note  sounded  on  a  lute 
will  awake  the  same  note  in  a  lute  Ly  its  side;  and  a  straw 
laid  upon  the  string  which  produces  that  note  will  show  its 
vibration.' 

The  soul  of  the  student  was  greatly  stirred ;  he  divined 
some  connection,  a  whole  world  of  undiscovered  knowledge, 
between  the  two  oscillating  straws  ;  the  one  trembling  on  the 
surface  of  the  waves,  the  other  quivering  on  the  vibrating 
string.  And  an  idea,  swift  as  lightning,  flashed  across  his 
mind. 

'The  mechanical  law  is  the  same  in  the  two  cases!  Like 
the  waves  on  the  water  when  a  stone  drops  into  it,  so  the 
waves  of  sound  widen  in  the  air,  intersecting  others,  but  not 
mingling  with  them,  keeping  their  own  centre  in  the  place  of 
their  origin.  What,  then,  of  light?  As  an  echo  is  the  repro- 
duction of  a  sound,  the  reflection  in  a  mirror  is  an  echo  of 
light.  There  is  but  one  mechanical  law  in  all  the  phenomena 
of  physical  force  ;  there  is  but  one  will ;  and  this  will  is  thy 
justice,  O  Prime  Mover!  the  angle  of  incidence  must  be 
equal  to  the  angle  of  reflection. ' 

His  face  pale,  his  eyes  burning  with  enthusiasm,  Leonardo 
felt  that  once  again,  and  this  time  more  certainly  than 
before,  he  was  about  to  sound  an  abyss  into  which  no  man 
had  looked  before.     He  knew  that  this  discovery,  if  con' 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  283 

firmed  by  experiment,  was  the  greatest  mechanical  discovery 
since  the  days  of  Archimedes.  Two  months  ago,  when  he 
had  heard  that  Vasco  di  Gama  had  doubled  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  and  discovered  a  new  route  to  India,  Leonardo  had 
envied  him,  but  now  he  had  made  a  greater  discovery  than 
di  Gama  or  Columbus  j  he  had  sighted  more  mysterious  ex- 
panses, and  no  less  than  they  had  found  a  new  heaven  and 
a  new  earth. 

But  through  the  wall  there  reached  his  ears  the  groans  and 
the  ravings  of  the  sufferer.  He  listened,  and  remembered 
his  mechanics,  the  senseless  destruction  of  the  Colossus,  the 
inevitable  ruin  of  the  Cenacolo,  Astro's  foolish  and  horrible 
fall ;  and  asked  himself: — 

'Will  this  discovery  be  lost  as  completely,  as  ignominiously 
as  all  else  which  I  have  done?  Will  no  man  heed  my  voice? 
shall  I  ever  be  solitary  as  now?  here  alone  in  the  darkness, 
underground,  as  if  buried  alive?  I  who  have  dreamed  of 
wings  V  After  a  short  pause,  he  added  :  '  Be  it  so  !  Dark- 
ness, and  silence,  and  oblivion,  and  none  to  know  what  I 
have  done  !     /  know  it ! ' 

And  indomitable  pride,  a  sense  of  inalienable  victory  and 
strength  filled  his  soul,  as  if  the  wings  to  which  he  had 
aspired  were  already  lifting  him  above  the  earth. 

The  subterranean  chamber  suddenly  became  too  strait  for 
him ;  he  felt  stifled,  and  the  longing  was  irresistible  to  behold 
the  sky,  and  the  open  country.  He  left  the  house,  and 
walked  swiftly  towards  the  cathedral. 


VIII 

The  night  was  moonlit,  serene,  and  warm ;  from  the  con- 
flagration sullen  flames  still  glowed,  and  smoky  spirals  still 
rose  into  the  sky. 

The  crowd  increased  as  he  drew  nearer  to  the  centre  of 
the  town.  The  blue  rays  of  the  moon,  the  scarlet  glare  of 
the  torches,  illuminated  faces  haggard  with  excitement, 
seamed  with  anxiety,  and  played  on  the  white  banner 
with  the  scarlet  cross  which  had  been  used  by  the  ancient 
Milanese  Commune,  on  lantern-poles,  arquebuses,  pistols, 
clubs,  halberts,  scythes,  pitchforks,  stakes,  all  pressed  into 
service  against  the  foreigner.     The  people  swarmed  like  ants, 


284  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  tocsin  pealed,  the  guns  roared.  From  the  fortress  the 
French  were  firing  down  the  street,  and  their  boast  was  that 
they  would  not  leave  one  stone  upon  another  within  the 
city  walls.  Louder  than  the  bells,  more  piercing  than  the 
booming  of  the  cannon,  rose  the  incessant  yell  of  the 
citizens :  '  Death  to  the  French  !  Death  to  the  foreigners ! 
Down  with  the  king !    Viva  II  Moro  ! ' 

To  Leonardo  it  gave  the  impression  of  a  wild  and  hideous 
dream.  Near  the  eastern  gate,  a  drummer  from  Picardy, 
a  boy  of  sixteen,  was  being  hanged,  Mascarello  the  goldsmith 
playing  the  part  of  executioner.  Flinging  the  rope  round  the 
lad's  neck,  and  tapping  him  lightly  on  the  head,  he  cried  with 
ribald  solemnity : — 

'In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost, 
we  dub  this  servant  of  God,  this  Frenchman,  Saltamacchia, 
Knight  of  the  Hempen  Necklace.' 

1  Amen  ! '  responded  the  crowd. 

The  little  drummer,  ill  understanding  his  danger,  half 
smiling,  blinking  his  eyes  like  a  child  about  to  cry,  shrank 
into  himself,  twisting  his  neck  that  he  might  ease  the  noose. 
Then  suddenly,  as  if  awaking  from  a  lethargy,  he  turned  his 
beautiful  but  white  and  trembling  face  to  the  crowd,  and 
would  have  attempted  entreaty.  His  voice  was  drowned  by 
howls  and  derisive  laughter,  and  he  gave  up  the  attempt, 
holding  his  peace  with  the  forlorn  air  of  a  resigned  and 
innocent  victim,  and  kissing  a  little  cross,  the  gift  of  his 
mother  or  sister,  which  he  had  worn  on  a  blue  ribbon  round 
his  neck.  Then  Mascarello  swung  him  into  the  void,  with 
the  jeer :  '  Courage,  Knight  of  the  Necklace !  Show  us  how 
you  dance  the  French  gaillard  \  * 

And,  mid  the  laughter  of  the  crowd,  the  child's  body 
shuddered  horribly,  and  was  convulsed  in  the  spasms  of 
death,  as  if  indeed  it  were  dancing. 

Leonardo  walked  on,  and  presently  he  saw  a  woman, 
dressed  in  rags,  kneeling  before  a  miserable  half-ruined  hovel, 
and  stretching  out  thin  bare  arms  to  the  passers-by. 

'  Help ;     Help  !     Help  ! '  she  cried  incessantly. 

Corbolo  the  shoemaker,  running  up,  asked  what  ailed  her. 

'  My  baby  !  My  baby  !  He  was  sleeping,  so  pretty  in  his 
little  bed  !  He  has  fallen  through  the  floor !  Perhaps  he  is 
still  alive  !     Oh,  save  him  !     Try  and  save  him  !    Help  I' 

Just  then  a  cannon-ball,  rending  the  air  with  a  shriek, 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1 500  285 

struck  the  roof  of  the  hovel.  The  beams  cracked,  dust  rose 
in  a  column,  the  roof  fell,  the  walls  crumbled,  and  the  woman 
was  for  ever  silenced. 

Again  Leonardo  moved  on,  and  presently  he  reached  the 
Palazzo  del  Comune.  Here,  in  front  of  the  Loggia  degli 
Osii,  an  university  student  was  haranguing  the  crowd, 
descanting  on  the  ancient  glory  of  the  Milanese,  and 
exhorting  the  people  to  annihilate  all  tyrants,  and  establish 
the  reign  of  equality.  His  hearers,  however,  seemed  hard  of 
persuasion. 

*  Citizens!'  he  cried,  brandishing  the  knife  which  on 
ordinary  occasions  served  him  for  mending  pens,  slicing 
sausages,  and  cutting  his  sweetheart's  name  on  the  bark  of 
trees,  but  which  now  he  had  christened  'the  Poniard  of 
Nemesis,'  'Citizens!  the  hour  has  come  in  which  we  must 
die  for  Liberty !  We  will  wash  our  hands  in  the  blood  cf 
the  tyrants;  in  their  breasts  we  will  plunge  this  Poniard  of 
Nemesis.      Viva  la  Repubblica  I ' 

'  Folly ! '  cried  voices  from  the  audience.  '  We  know  the 
wine  of  your  vintage  !  We  know  the  liberty  you  would  give 
us,  you  spy,  traitor,  dog  of  a  Frenchman  !  To  the  devil  with 
you  and  your  republic !  Viva  II  Moro  I  Death  to  all 
enemies  of  the  duke ! ' 

The  orator  continued  to  prate,  enforcing  his  doctrine  by 
instances  from  Cicero  and  Tacitus,  but  the  mob  overthrew 
his  bench,  knocked  him  down  and  beat  him,  shouting : — 

'Here's  for  your  Liberty!  Here's  for  your  Republic! 
Here's  for  inflaming  fools  against  their  legitimate  ruler!' 

Leonardo  stood  for  a  minute  in  the  Piazza  dell'  Arengo  to 
admire  the  imposing  pile  of  the  cathedral — that  marble 
forest  of  pinnacles  and  towers,  fantastic  in  the  double  light, 
blue  rays  of  the  moon  and  crimson  flare  of  torches.  In  front 
of  the  archbishop's  palace  the  press  was  so  great  that  there 
was  scarce  standing-room,  and  from  the  centre  of  the  throng 
came  groans  and  ferocious  howls. 

'  What  has  happened?'  asked  the  painter  ot  an  old  workman, 
whose  gentle  dignified  face  was  blanched  with  horror. 

'Who  can  understand?  They  themselves  know  neither 
what  they  want  nor  what  they  do.  They  are  accusing  Messer 
Jacopo  Crotta  of  selling  poisoned  flour,  and  of  being  a 
French  spy  !  O  Dio  I  Dio  !  It  is  a  lie  !  But  they  fall  on 
the  first  man  they  meet,  and  listen  to  none !     'Tis  horrible, 


286  THE  FORERUNNER 

'tis  most  horrible !     Lord  Jesus,  have  mercy  on  us,  wretched 
sinners!' 

Just  then  Gorgoglio  the  glass-blower  detached  himself 
from  the  dense  pack  of  human  bodies,  holding  aloft  a 
bloody  human  head  stuck  on  a  pole;  and  Farfannicchio, 
the  madcap  of  the  streets,  danced  round  it,  screaming  and 
yelling. 

*  Down  with  the  traitors !  down  with  the  foreigners ! 
Death  to  the  devils  of  Frenchmen  ! ' 

*A  furore  populi,  libera  nos,  DomineV  murmured  the  old 
workman,  crossing  himself. 

From  the  castle  came  an  incessant  sound  of  trumpets, 
drums,  explosions  of  cannon,  crackling  of  guns,  cries  of 
soldiers.  The  monster  bombard,  called  by  the  French 
Margot  la  Folle,  and  by  the  Germans  die  tolle  Grete>  was 
fired ;  the  earth  shook,  it  seemed  that  the  whole  town  must 
crash  into  ruins.  The  bomb  fell  beyond  the  Borgonuovo,  and 
set  fire  to  a  house;  pillars  of  flame  rose  into  the  quiet 
moonlit  sky,  and  the  piazza  was  lit  with  a  crimson  glare. 
The  people  hurried  hither  and  thither,  jostling,  pushing, 
trampling  each  other  like  black  shadows,  like  living 
phantoms. 

Leonardo  stood  watching  the  wild  scene,  noting  every 
detail,  his  mind  preoccupied.  The  fiery  glow,  the  voices 
of  the  crowd,  the  pealing  of  the  bells,  the  boom  of  the 
guns,  all  brought  back  his  discovery.  Imagination  pictured 
the  waves  of  sound,  the  waves  of  light  swelling  tranquilly, 
circling  outwards  like  the  ripple  on  water  where  a  stone  has 
fallen,  intersecting  each  other  without  mingling  or  confusion, 
each  keeping  its  own  centre  in  the  point  of  its  origin. 
Great  gladness  filled  his  soul  as  he  thought  that  never  at 
any  time  could  men  interrupt  the  harmonious  play  of  these 
ordered  waves,  nor  the  mechanical  law  which  rules  them, 
the  unchanging  fiat  of  their  creator,  the  rule  of  divine  justice, 
making  the  angle  of  incidence  equal  to  the  angle  of 
reflection. 

In  his  soul  re-echoed — 

*  O  wondrous  justice  of  thee,  thou  Prime  Mover !  No  force 
hast  thou  permitted  to  lack  the  order  and  the  quality  of  its 
necessary  effect ! ' 

In  the  frenzied  crowd,  the  soul  of  the  artist  preserved  the 
eternal  calm  of  contemplation ;  even  as  the  blue  rays  of  the 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  2S7 

moon  shone  with  heavenly  effulgence  supreme  over  glare  of 
torches  and  flames  of  conflagration  and  war. 

On  a  certain  morning  in  February  1500,  Ludovico  Sforza, 
II  Moro,  re-entered  Milan  by  the  Porta  Nuova.  Leonardo 
had  started  the  previous  night  for  Vaprio,  his  friend  Melzi's 
villa. 

IX 

Girolamo  Melzi  had  once  belonged  to  the  court  of  the  Sfor- 
zas,  but  on  the  death  of  his  young  wife  in  1494  he  had  retired 
to  his  lonely  villa  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps,  a  few  hours'  journey 
from  Milan.  Far  from  the  noise  of  the  world,  he  lived  the  life 
of  a  philosopher,  gardening  with  his  own  hands,  and  devoting 
himself  to  music  and  to  the  study  of  the  occult  sciences.  Some 
said  he  was  an  adept  in  black  magic,  accustomed  to  call  up  the 
shade  of  his  lost  wife  from  the  lower  world.  The  mathema- 
tician, Fra  Luca  Pacioli,  and  Sacrobosco,  the  alchemist,  often 
visited  him,  and  whole  nights  were  spent  in  argument  about 
Plato's  ideas,  and  the  laws  of  the  Pythagorean  numbers  which 
governed  the  music  of  the  spheres.  But  Melzi  found  his  chief 
pleasure  in  the  visits  of  Leonardo,  which  were  not  infrequent, 
as  the  works  on  the  Martesana  Canal  often  brought  him  to  the 
vicinity. 

Vaprio  was  situated  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Adda  ;  and  the 
canal,  skirting  the  villa  garden,  ran  for  a  certain  distance 
parallel  to  the  river,  the  course  of  which  was  just  here 
obstructed  by  rapids.  All  day  the  roar  of  the  cataract  made 
itself  heard,  loud  as  the  billows  of  the  sea  surf.  Free,  wild, 
storm-tossed,  untamed  by  man,  the  Adda  hurled  its  green 
waves  between  winding  precipitous  banks  of  yellow  sandstone. 
By  its  side,  the  same  cold,  green,  mountain  water  swam 
noiselessly  by  within  the  straight-drawn  confines  of  the 
canal ;  smooth  as  a  mirror,  calm,  slow,  submissive  and  sub- 
dued. The  contrast  delighted  Leonardo,  and  seemed  to  him 
of  pregnant  meaning.  Which  of  the  two  streams  was  the 
more  beautiful — the  Martesana,  his  own  creation,  the  work  of 
human  intelligence  and  will,  or  its  elder  sister,  the  foaming 
Adda,  savage,  threatening,  superb  in  its  untrammelled  freedom? 
He  understood  each,  sympathised  with  each,  and  loved  them 
with  equal  love. 

From  the  \ipper  terrace  of  the  villa  garden  was  a  wide 


288  THE  FORERUNNER 

prospect  of  the  immense  Lombard  plain,  one  vast  and  smiling 
garden.  In  the  summer  the  fields  were  rank  with  verdure ; 
hay  scented  the  air ;  the  wheat  and  the  maize  grew  so  tall  as  to 
overtop  the  vines ;  ears  of  corn  kissed  the  pears  and  the 
apples,  the  cherries  and  the  plums.  The  hills  of  Como  rose 
dark  towards  the  north  ;  above  them  towered  the  first  spurs  of 
the  Alps ;  higher  still  the  snow-clad  summits  glowed  in  the 
sunset  gold. 

Fra  Luca  and  Messer  Galeotto  Sacrobosco,  whose  cottage 
by  the  Porta  Vercellina  had  been  destroyed  by  the  French, 
were  both  at  the  villa  when  Leonardo  arrived;  but  he  kept 
himself  apart,  preferring  solitude.  He  conceived,  however, 
a  great  fondness  for  the  company  of  Francesco,  his  host's 
little  son. 

Timid  and  shy  as  a  girl,  the  boy  at  first  stood  in  great  awe 
of  the  painter ;  one  day,  however,  he  came  into  his  room  at  a 
moment  when  Leonardo,  studying  the  laws  of  colour,  was 
experimenting  with  coloured  glass.  He  pleased  the  child 
by  letting  him  look  through  the  different  pieces,  yellow,  blue, 
purple,  or  green,  which  gave  a  fairy  aspect  to  familiar  objects, 
and  made  the  world  seem  now  smiling,  now  frowning,  ac- 
cording to  the  colour  of  the  gins.  Another  of  Leonardo's 
inventions  proved  very  attractive.  This  was  the  'Camera 
obscura,'  by  means  of  which  living  pictures  appeared  on  a 
sheet  of  white  paper;  and  Francesco  saw  the  turning  of 
the  mill-wheel,  the  swallows  circling  round  the  church,  the 
woodcutter's  grey  donkey  with  his  load  of  faggots  stepping 
daintily  along  the  miry  road  while  the  poplars  bowed  their 
heads  under  the  breeze.  Still  more  fascinating  was  the 
weather-gauge :  a  copper  riner,  a  small  stick  like  the  beam  of  a 
balance,  and  two  little  balls,  the  one  covered  with  wax, 
the  other  with  wadding.  When  the  air  was  saturated  with 
moisture  the  wadding  grew  heavy,  and  the  little  ball,  falling 
down,  inclined  the  beam  till  it  touched  one  or  other  of  the 
divisions  marked  on  the  copper  ring.  The  degree  of  damp 
could  thus  be  accurately  measured,  and  the  weather  predicted 
for  two  or  three  days.  The  little  boy  constructed  a  similar 
apparatus  for  hirrself  and  was  jubilant  when  the  prophecies 
were  fulfilled  which  he  had  deduced  from  its  variations. 
Francesco  went  to  the  village  school  where  he  was  taught  by 
the  old  prior  of  the  neighbour  convent.  The  dog-eared 
Latin  grammar  and  arithmetic  primer  were  odious  to  him, 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  289 

and  he  learned  but  slackly.  Leonardo's  lore  was  of  a  new 
sort,  pleasant  to  the  child  as  a  fairy  tale.  The  instruments  for 
the  study  of  optics,  acoustics,  hydraulics,  were  to  hirn  new 
and  magical  toys,  nor  was  he  ever  tired  of  hearing  the  painter's 
talk.  Fearing  ridicule  or  suspicion,  Leonardo  spoke  but 
cautiously  with  adults;  to  Francesco  he  talked  with  the  utmost 
frankness  and  simplicity.  He  not  only  taught  the  child,  but 
learned  of  him.  Paraphrasing  the  text  of  Holy  Writ,  he  told 
himself — 'Except  ye  be  converted  and  become  as  little  children, 
ye  shall  not  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  knowledge.' 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  was  writing  his  Book  of  the  Stars. 
On  March  evenings,  when  in  the  still  chilly  air  there  was  a 
waft  of  spring,  he  would  stand  on  the  roof  with  Francesco, 
watching  the  tide  of  stars  and  sketching  the  spots  on  the 
face  of  the  moon.  Then  rolling  a  piece  of  paper  into  an 
inverted  cone,  he  bade  the  child  look  through  the  aperture  at 
the  end,  and  Francesco  saw  the  stars  robbed  of  their  rays,  and 
like  bright,  round,  infinitely  minute  globules. 

*  Those  globules,'  said  Leonardo,  '  are  of  great  size,  many  of 
them  a  hundred,  nay,  a  thousand  times  larger  than  our  earth, 
which,  however,  is  not  less  beautiful  nor  more  contemptible 
than  they.  The  mechanical  laws  which  obtain  in  our  world, 
and  which  have  been  discovered  by  human  sagacity,  guide 
also  those  stars  and  suns.' 

'  What  is  there  beyond  the  stars  ? '  murmured  the  child. 
'More  stars,  Francesco;  worlds  which  we  cannot  see.' 

*  And  beyond  those  ? ' 
•Yet  others.' 

'But  at  the  end,  at  the  very  end?' 

'There  is  no  end.' 

'No  end,'  cried  the  boy,  and  Leonardo  felt  the  trembling  of 
the  little  hand  within  his  own.  The  child's  face  had  grown 
pale. 

'  Then  where — where,*  he  said  slowly,  '  where  is  Paradise, 
Messer  Leonardo,  and  the  angels,  and  the  saints,  and  the 
Madonna,  and  God  the  Father  who  sits  upon  the  throne  with 
God  the  Son  and  the  Holy  Spirit  ? ' 

The  teacher  would  have  liked  to  answer  that  God  was 
everywhere ;  in  the  grain  of  sand  no  less  than  in  the  celestial 
globe;  in  the  hearts  of  men  no  less  than  in  the  outside 
universe.  But  fearing  to  disturb  the  simple  faith  of  the  little 
one  he  held  his  peace. 
T 


29o  THE  FORERUNNER 


With  the  first  budding  ot  the  trees,  the  painter  and  the  child 
spent  whole  days  together  in  the  garden  or  in  the  neighbour- 
ing woods  watching  the  reviving  of  life  in  the  vegetable  world. 
Sometimes  Leonardo  would  draw  a  flower  or  tree,  trying  to 
seize  the  living  likeness  as  in  the  portrait  of  a  man ;  that 
unique  particular  aspect  of  his  model  which  would  never  be 
repeated.  He  taught  Francesco  how  the  rings  seen  in  the 
wood  of  the  trunk  reveal  the  age  of  the  tree ;  and  how  the 
thickness  of  each  ring  shows  the  amount  of  moisture  in 
the  year  when  it  was  formed ;  how  the  core  of  the  trunk  is 
always  on  the  southern  side,  which  has  had  the  most  of  the 
sun's  heat.  He  told  how  in  the  spring-time  the  sap, 
gathering  between  the  inner  green  of  the  trunk  and  the 
outer  bark,  thickens  and  expands  and  bursts  the  bark ;  how, 
if  a  branch  is  cut,  the  vital  power  draws  an  abundance  of 
nutritive  juices  to  the  wounded  place,  so  that  the  bark  thickens 
and  the  wound  is  healed ;  yet  its  mark  remains  because  the 
abundance  of  the  nutritive  juices  has  been  too  great,  and  has 
overflowed  and  made  lumps  and  knots.  Always  he  spoke  of 
nature  dryly  and  with  apparent  frigidity,  seeking  only 
scientific  accuracy.  With  passionless  exactitude  he  defined 
the  tender  details  of  the  action  of  the  spring  upon  the  life 
of  plants,  as  he  would  have  spoken  of  the  performance  of 
a  machine.  He  showed  from  abstract  mathematics  the 
wonderful  laws  which  shape  the  needles  of  pine-trees  and 
the  facets  of  crystals.  Yet  for  all  his  coldness  and  im- 
partiality, the  child  discerned  his  love  for  all  living  things, 
for  the  withered  leaf  no  less  than  for  the  mighty  boughs  which 
spread  suppliant  arms  to  their  great  lord,  the  sun.  At  times, 
in  the  depth  of  the  forest,  he  would  pause  and  note  smilingly 
how  under  last  year's  withered  leaves  still  hanging  on  the 
branches,  green  shoots  were  sprouting  to  oust  them  from 
their  place;  how  the  bee,  weak  from  her  winter  torpor, 
could  scarce  crawl  into  the  snowdrop's  cup.  In  the  great 
stillness  Francesco  could  hear  the  beating  of  his  friend's 
iron  heart;  timidly  he  would  raise  his  eyes  to  the  Master. 
The  sun  shining  athwart  the  branches  lit  up  his  long  curling 
hair,  flowing  beard,  and  overhanging  brows,  and  surrounded  his 
head  with  a  halo :  he  seemed  like  Pan  himself  who  listens  to 
the  growing  of  the  grass,  the  murmuring  of  spring  below  the 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  291 

earth,  the  mystical  forces  of  awakening  life.  To  Leonardo  all 
things  lived.  The  world  was  one  great  body,  like  the  body  of 
man,  who  himself  is  a  little  world.  In  the  dewdrops  he  saw 
the  similitude  of  the  watery  sphere  which  surrounds  the  earth. 
The  cataracts  of  the  Adda  near  Trezzo  gave  him  occasion  to 
study  the  cascades  and  whirlpools  of  rivers  which  he  compared 
to  the  twisting  of  a  woman's  curls.  Mysterious  resemblances 
attracted  him,  concords  in  nature's  harmony  like  voices 
answering  each  other  from  distant  worlds.  Inquiring  into 
the  origin  of  the  rainbow,  he  noted  that  the  same  prismatic 
colour  is  seen  in  the  plumage  of  birds,  precious  stones,  in 
the  scum  on  stagnant  water,  in  old  dulled  glass.  In  the 
patterns  on  frosted  window-panes,  he  found  a  resemblance 
to  living  leaves  and  flowers,  as  if  nature  in  this  world  of 
frozen  crystal  had  seen  prophetic  visions  of  the  coming 
spring.  At  times  he  felt  himself  drawing  near  new  realms 
of  knowledge,  perhaps  to  be  entered  only  by  men  of  ages  to 
come.  He  used  to  say  about  the  attractive  powers  of 
amber : — 

*I  see  not  the  mode  by  which  the  human  mind  shall 
apprehend  the  mystery.  These  powers  of  the  magnet  and 
the  amber  are  among  those  occult  forces  which  are  as  yet 
unrevealed.' 

And  further — 

*  The  world  is  full  of  countless  possibilities  of  which  yet 
there  has  been  no  experience. ' 

One  day,  a  certain  Messer  Guidotto  Prestinari,  a  poet  from 
Bergamo,  came  to  the  villa.  Offended  with  Leonardo,  who 
did  not  sufficiently  praise  his  verses,  he  began  a  discussion  on 
the  comparative  excellence  of  poetry  and  painting.  Leonardo 
spoke  little,  but  the  fury  with  which  Messer  Gui '  otto  assailed 
his  art  at  last  amused  him  and  he  said,  half  jesting : — ■ 

'Painting  is  higher  than  poetry,  inasmuch  as  it  reproduces 
the  eternal  works- of  God  and  not  human  inventions,  to  which 
the  poets,  at  least  of  our  day,  are  too  apt  to  confine  them- 
selves. They  depict  not,  but  describe,  borrowing  all  they 
have  and  trading  with  each  other's  wares.  They  but  put 
together  and  combine  the  refuse  of  knowledge.  They  may 
be  compared  to  the  receivers  of  stolen  goods. .  . .' 

Fra  Luca,  Messer  Galeotto,  and  Melzi  himself  cried  out; 
but  Leonardo  had  now  warmed  to  the  subject  and  cried  : — 

'The  eye  gives  a  more  complete  knowledge  of  nature  than 


292  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  ear!  Things  seen  are  less  to  be  doubted  than  things 
heard.  Painting,  which  is  silent  poetry,  comes  nearer  to 
positive  science  than  poetry,  which  is  invisible  painting. 
Words  give  but  a  series  of  isolated  images  following  one 
another;  but  in  a  picture,  all  the  forms,  all  the  colours 
appear  synchronously,  and  are  blended  into  a  whole,  like  the 
notes  of  a  chord  in  music ;  and  thus  both  to  painting  and  to 
music  a  more  complex  harmony  is  possible  than  to  poetry. 
And  the  richer  the  harmony,  the  richer  is  that  delight  which 
is  the  aim  and  the  enchantment  of  art.  Question,  say, 
any  lover,  whether  he  would  not  rather  have  a  portrait  of  his 
loved  one  than  a  description  in  words  of  her  countenance, 
though  it  were  composed  by  the  greatest  of  poets  ? ' 

This  argument  provoked  a  smile,  and  presently  Leonardo 
continued : — 

'Hear  a  narrative  from  my  own  experience.  A  certain 
Florentine  youth  fell  into  such  a  longing  for  the  face  of  a 
woman  whom  I  had  painted  in  one  of  my  sacred  pictures, 
that,  having  bought  it,  he  cancelled  all  the  signs  of  its 
religious  character,  so  that  he  might  kiss  his  adored  one 
without  fear  or  scruple.  But  soon  the  voice  of  conscience 
overcame  the  passion  of  love,  nor  could  he  recover  his  tran- 
quillity of  mind  till  he  had  removed  the  picture  from  his 
dwelling.  Think  ye,  O  poets,  that  with  your  words  you 
could  rouse  a  man  to  like  vehemence  of  desire?  Believe 
me,  Messeri,  I  speak  not  of  myself,  for  I  know  how  greatly  I 
fall  short,  but  of  that  painter  who  attains  to  the  perfection  of 
his  art.  He  is  no  longer  a  man ;  rapt  in  the  contemplation  of 
divine  and  eternal  beauty,  or  turned  to  the  study  of  monstrous 
forms,  grotesque,  pathetic,  terrible,  he  can  comprehend  and 
give  shape  to  all;  he  is  a  sovereign — a  god.' 

Many  such  ideas  Leonardo  had  inscribed  in  his  note-books ; 
and  Fra  Luca  urged  him  to  order  his  manuscripts  and  give 
them  to  the  public.  He  even  offered  to  find  him  an  editor. 
Leonardo,  however5  refused,  and  remained  firm  in  his  resolu- 
tion that  he  would  publish  nothing.  Yet  all  his  writings  were 
couched  in  the  form  of  address  to  a  reader ;  and  at  the  com- 
mencement of  one  of  his  diaries  he  apologised  in  these  words 
for  the  disconnected  style  and  frequent  repetitions : — 

1  Blame  me  not,  O  reader,  for  the  subjects  are  numberless 
and  my  memory  is  weak,  and  I  write  at  long  intervals  iu 
different  years.' 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  293 

XI 

In  the  last  days  of  March  disquieting  tidings  reached  the 
Villa  Melzi.  The  French  army,  led  by  Monsieur  de  la 
Tremouille,  had  crossed  the  Alps  and  was  descending  for  the 
reconquest  of  Milan.  II  Moro,  suspicious  of  all,  and 
oppressed  by  superstitious  fears,  dared  not  meet  the  enemy 
in  the  open  field,  and  daily  showed  himself//^  pauroso  d'una 
donniccuola,  '  more  panic-stricken  than  a  silly  girl.' 

But  at  the  villa  news  of  the  great  world  seemed  but  a  faint 
and  far  off  hum.  Careless  of  duke  and  king,  Leonardo 
roamed  the  neighbouring  hills  and  glens  and  woods,  accom- 
panied only  by  the  little  Francesco.  Sometimes  they  ascended 
the  river  to  its  source  among  the  pine-clad  mountains;  and 
there  they  hired  workmen  and  made  excavations,  seeking 
fossil  shells  and  plants. 

One  evening,  wearied  by  a  long  day's  march,  they  rested 
under  an  old  lime-tree,  overhanging  the  steep  bank  of  the 
Adda.  The  unbounded  plain,  with  its  long  rows  of  wayside 
poplars,  lay  stretched  at  their  feet.  The  white  houses  of 
B  rgamo  shone  in  the  evening  sunlight :  the  snowy  mountain- 
tops  seemed  to  float  in  the  air.  All  the  sky  was  clear,  save 
that  in  the  far  distance,  almost  on  the  horizon,  between 
Treviglio,  Brignano,  and  Castel  Rozzone,  there  suddenly 
appeared  a  light  cloud  of  smoke. 

I  What  is  it  ? '  asked  Francesco. 

I I  know  not.  It  may  be  a  battle.  I  see  what  may  be 
fire,  and  think  I  hear  the  sound  of  cannon.  It  may  be  a 
skirmish  between  our  folk  and  the  French.' 

Latterly,  such  chance  encounters  had  not  been  infrequent. 
They  watched  the  cloud  silently  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
turned  their  attention  to  the  fruit  of  their  day's  digging.  The 
master  picked  up  a  large  bone,  sharp  as  a  needle,  the  fin  of 
some  primeval  fish. 

'  How  many  kings,  how  many  nations  has  not  time 
destroyed  since  this  creature  fell  on  its  sleep  in  that  great 
cavern,  where  to-day  we  have  found  it?  How  many  thou- 
sands of  years  has  the  world  seen,  what  changes  have  taken 
place,  while  it  was  lying  hid,  concealed  from  all  eyes,  support- 
ing heavy  masses  of  earth  with  its  bare  skeleton  ?  ' 

He  made  a  large  gesture  with  his  hand,  as  if  to  embrace 
the  verdant  plain  stretched  at  their  feet ;  then  continued : — 


294  THE  FORERUNNER 

1  All  that  you  see,  Francesco,  was  once  the  bed  of  an  ocean 
which  covered  the  chief  parts  of  Europe,  Africa,  and  Asia; 
the  summits  of  the  Apennines  were  islands  in  a  great  sea, 
and  fishes  swam  in  these  fields  of  singing  birds.' 

He  interrupted  himself,  and  they  looked  once  more  at  the 
distant  smoke-drift,  and  the  flashes  of  fire  from  the  cannon,  so 
insignificant  in  the  boundless  expanse,  which  lay  all  peaceful 
and  rose-tinted  in  the  sunset  glow.  It  was  hard  to  believe 
that  a  fight  was  taking  place,  and  that  men  were  killing  each 
other  almost  within  range  of  their  eyesight.  More  vivid  to 
Francesco  were  the  birds  flying  to  roost,  the  fish  of  that  for- 
gotten sea.  Neither  spoke,  but  at  that  moment  the  painter 
and  the  child  had  the  same  thought : — 

*  Tis  a  small  matter  whether  the  Lombards  prevail  or  the 
Frenchmen;  Ludovico  the  duke,  or  Louis  the  foreign  king; 
our  own  people  or  the  strangers.  Country,  glory,  war,  the 
strife  of  policy,  the  fall  of  thrones,  the  upheaval  of  nations, 
all  that  to  m~n  seems  great  or  terrible — all  are  no  more  than 
yonder  little  cloud  of  smoke,  melting  into  the  peaceful  twilight 
dissolving  in  the  immutable  serenity  of  Nature.' 


XII 

It  was  at  Vaprio  that  Leonardo  finished  a  picture  begun 
long  ago  at  Florence.  In  a  cavern,  surrounded  by  great 
rocks,  the  Mother  of  God  was  folding  one  arm  round  the 
infant  John  the  Baptist,  with  the  other  clasping  her  Son, 
as  if  she  desired  to  unite  the  Human  and  the  Divine  in  the 
indissoluble  embrace  of  a  single  love.  John,  devoutly  join- 
ing his  little  hands,  bent  his  knee  before  Jesus,  who  blessed 
him  with  two  fingers  raised.  The  attitude  of  the  infant 
Saviour,  sitting  naked  on  the  naked  earth,  one  plump  dimpled 
leg  tucked  under  the  other,  while  he  leaned  on  a  plump  hand, 
all  its  fingers  outspread  upon  the  sand — suggested  the  baby 
still  unible  to  walk;  yet  already  on  his  face,  perfect  wisdom 
was  blent  with  the  simplicity  of  infancy.  A  kneeling  angel 
supporting  the  little  Jesus,  and  pointing  at  the  Precursor, 
turned  to  the  spectator  a  face  instinct  with  mournful  fore- 
boding, yet  illumined  by  a  strange  and  tender  smile.  Behind 
the  rocks  a  pale  sun  shone  through  drizzling  rain,  and 
blue  mountains  rose  into  the  sky,  their  sharp  peaks  weird 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  295 

and  unearthly;  the  rocks,  smoothed  and  polished  as  if  by  the 
action  of  salt  water,  suggested  some  dried-up  ocean  bed ; 
and  in  the  cavern  was  most  profound  shadow,  almost  conceal- 
ing a  bubbling  spring,  leaves  of  water-plants,  pale  dim  cups 
of  purple  iris-flowers.  One  could  fancy  slow  tricklings  and 
droppings  from  the  overhanging  arch  of  black  dolomite ;  and 
the  creeping  weeds  and  grasses  were  heavy  with  the  continuous 
ooze  of  the  ground  and  the  damp  saturation  of  the  air.  The 
face  of  the  Madonna  alone  shone  with  the  delicate  brilliance 
of  alabaster  within  which  glows  a  light.  Queen  of  Heaven, 
she  was  shown  to  men  in  the  gloom  of  twilight,  in  a  sub- 
terranean cavern,  in  the  most  secret  of  the  recesses  of  nature, 
perhaps  the  last  refuge  of  ancient  Pan  and  the  wood  nymphs 
— she,  the  mystery  of  mysteries,  the  mother  of  the  God-man, 
in  the  very  bosom  of  mother  earth. 

It  was  the  creation  at  once  of  a  great  artist  and  of  a  great 
student ;  the  play  of  light  and  of  shadow,  the  laws  of  vegetable 
life,  the  anatomy  of  the  human  body,  the  science  of  drapery, 
the  spirals  of  a  woman's  curls  (which  he  had  compared  to 
the  circling  of  a  whirlpool),  all  that  the  natural  philosopher 
had  searched  into  with  '  unrelenting  severity,'  had  measured 
with  mathematical  accuracy,  had  dissected  as  one  dissects  a 
corpse — all  this  the  artist  had  recombined  into  a  new  creation, 
living  beauty,  a  silent  melody;  into  a  mystic  hymn  to  the 
Holy  Virgin,  the  Mother  of  God.  With  knowledge  equalled 
by  love  he  had  depicted  the  veins  in  the  iris  petals,  the  dimples 
in  the  baby's  elbow,  the  ancient  cleft  in  the  dolomite  rock, 
the  quiver  of  the  water  in  the  secret  spring;  the  quiver  of 
infinite  grief  in  the  angel's  smile.  He  knew  all  and  loved 
all.     Great  love  is  the  daughter  of  great  knowledge. 


XIII 

One  day  the  alchemist,  Messer  Galeotto  Sacrobosco,  under- 
took to  experiment  with  the  '  Rod  of  Mercury,'  under  which 
name  were  known  all  those  staves  of  myrtle,  almond,  tamarind, 
or  other  '  astrological '  woods,  which  were  supposed  to  have 
a  kinship  with  metals,  and  the  property  of  discovering  veins 
of  gold,  silver,  and  copper  in  the  rocks.  Accompanied  by 
Messer  Gerolamo,  he  went  to  the  east  side  of  the  lake  of 
Lecco,  known  to  be  rich  in  ores ;  and  Leonardo  joined  the 


=  96  THE  FORERUNNER 

company,  though  he  had  no  faith  in  the  '  Rod  of  Mercury,' 
and  mocked  at  it  no  less  than  at  the  other  delusions  of  the 
alchemists. 

Near  the  village  of  Mandello,  at  the  foot  of  Monte 
Campione,  there  was  an  abandoned  iron  mine.  Some  years 
before  the  ground  had  fallen  in  and  buried  a  number  of  the 
miners;  and  it  was  reported  that  sulphurous  exhalations  rose 
from  a  rent  in  the  lowest  depths  of  the  mine,  into  which,  if  a 
stone  were  thrown,  it  fell,  and  fell,  and  fell,  but  was  never 
heard  to  strike  the  bottom,  for  the  sufficient  reason  that  the 
pit  was  bottomless.  Leonardo's  curiosity  was  excited  by 
these  tales,  and  he  determined  to  explore  the  mine  while  his 
companions  were  busied  with  the  magic  rod.  Not  without 
difficulty,  for  the  peasants  believed  the  mine  to  be  the  dwell- 
ing-place of  a  devil,  he  obtained  the  services  of  an  old  man 
as  guide.  A  subterranean  passage,  very  steep  and  dark,  and 
with  broken  and  slippery  stairs,  led  to  the  central  shaft.  The 
guide  walked  stolidly  in  front  with  a  lantern,  and  Leonardo 
followed,  carrying  Francesco,  who  had  insisted  on  accompany- 
ing his  friend.  They  descended  more  than  two  hundred  steps, 
and  were  still  going  down,  the  passage  becoming  ever  narrower 
and  more  steep.  A  stifling  smell  of  subterranean  damp  assailed 
the  nostrils.  Leonardo  struck  the  wall  with  a  spade,  listened 
to  the  sound  it  made,  and  examined  the  piece  of  rock  he  had 
detached,  the  nature  and  layers  of  the  soil,  and  the  bright 
mica  sparkling  in  the  veins  of  granite. 

He  felt  the  child  clinging  to  him  very  tightly,  and  he  asked 
with  a  smile  whether  his  little  comrade  were  afraid. 

'With  you,  I  am  never  afraid,'  said  Francesco ;  presently 
he  added  shyly,  '  is  it  true  what  my  babbo  says,  that  you  are 
going  to  leave  us  ? ' 

'Yes,  Francesco.' 

1  Where  are  you  going  ? ' 

*  To  Romagna ;  to  the  Duke  Valentino.' 

'  Is  it  very  far  ? ' 

'Several  days'  journey/ 

'Several  days!'  sighed  Francesco;  'then  shall  we  never 
see  you  again  ? ' 

'Why  not?  The  first  minute  I  can,  I  will  come  and  see 
you.' 

The  boy  became  thoughtful.  Squeezing  Leonardo's  neck 
tightly  with  his  two  arms,  he  cried  :— 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  297 

*  Take  me  with  you !  Oh,  Messer  Leonardo,  take  me  with 
you.' 

'Alack,  my  child!  How  is  it  possible?  There  is  war 
there.' 

'  I  don't  care  for  the  war.  Have  I  not  said  that  with  you 
I  am  never  afraid  ?  Even  if  it  be  more  fearsome  than  it  is  in 
this  place  where  we  are  now,  I  shall  not  be  afraid.  I  will  be 
your  servant,  brush  your  clothes,  carry  hay  to  your  horses ; 
and  I  will  seek  shells  for  you,  and  make  you  drawings  of 
leaves.  Did  you  not  say  to  me  I  drew  them  well?  I  will  do 
everything  like  a  man.  I  will  obey  you  in  whatever  you 
command.    Take  me  with  you,  Messer  Leonardo  ! ' 

'  And  how  about  Messer  Gerolamo  ?    Would  he  consent  ? ' 

'  He  will  consent  if  I  cry  for  it.  And  if  he  doesn't  consent, 
then  I  will  run  away.  Say  you  will  take  me  with  you! 
Say  it ! ' 

'No,  Francesco;  it  is  idle  talk.  I  know  thou  would'st 
not  leave  thy  father.  He  grows  old,  and  thou  must  have  a 
fondness  for  him.' 

1  Of  a  surety  I  have  a  fondness  for  him.  But  for  you,  too, 
Messer  Leonardo  !  You  think  me  very  little,  but  truly  I  com- 
prehend everything.  Aunt  Bona  says  you  are  a  sorcerer,  and 
Don  Lorenzo,  my  schoolmaster,  says  it  likewise,  and  that  you 
are  wicked,  and  that  with  you  I  shall  lose  my  soul.  But  when 
he  speaks  ill  of  you,  I  answer  him  in  such  wise  that  he  comes 
near  beating  me ! ' 

Suddenly  Francesco's  eyes  filled  and  the  corners  of  his  lips 
drooped. 

'I   understand/  he  said;   'I  understand  why  you  don't 

want  me.     You  don't  love  me.     And  I .'    He  burst  into 

tears. 

'  Hush !  hush !  Thou  should'st  cry  shame  to  weep ! 
Hearken  to  what  I  tell  thee.  In  a  few  years,  when  thou 
art  grown,  then  I  will  take  thee  for  my  disciple,  and  keep 
thee  always  at  my  side.' 

The  child  raised  his  eyes,  tears  still  trembling  on  their  long 
lashes. 

'  But  do  you  mean  it  ?  or  is  it  said  to  comfort  me,  and 
afterwards  will  you  forget?' 

'No,  Francesco,  I  promise.' 

'You  promise?     And  how  long  must  I  wait?' 

'  Eight  or  nine  years  :  till  thou  art  at  the  least  fifteen.' 


298  THE  FORERUNNER 

*  Eight  years,'  sighed  the  child,  reckoning  on  his  fingers 
'and  I  shall  be  always  with  you?' 

*  Unless  we  die.' 

'  Eight  years!    Well,  if  you  say  it,  it  is  certain.' 

Francesco  smiled,  and  rubbed  his  cheek  against  Leonardo's 
with  a  pretty  gesture  peculiar  to  himself. 

1  Messer  Leonardo,  once  I  dreamed  I  was  in  the  dark, 
going  down  a  long,  long  stair  like  this  one,  only  it  had  no 
beginning  and  no  end.  But  I  was  not  frightened,  for  some 
one  was  carrying  me.  I  thought  it  was  my  mother,  who 
died  ere  ever  I  saw  her ;  but  now  I  know  it  was  you.  I  am 
as  happy  with  you  as  if  I  was  with  her.' 

Leonardo  looked  at  the  child  with  inexpressible  tenderness. 
The  innocent  eyes  shone;  he  put  out  his  bright  lips  as  con 
fidingly  as  to  a  mother,  and  when  Leonardo  kissed  them  he 
felt  the  child  was  giving  him  his  soul.  Thus,  with  the  little 
heart  beating  against  his  own,  he  descended  with  firm  steps 
into  the  subterranean  night. 

XIV 

Upon  their  return  to  Vaprio  they  found  alarm  in  the  villa ; 
the  French  were  approaching.  Louis,  furious  at  the  revolt  of 
the  Milanese,  had  given  their  city  over  to  pillage.  Many 
of  the  inhabitants  fled  to  the  mountains.  Along  the  road 
was  an  endless  procession  of  carts  laden  with  household 
stuff,  and  of  weeping  women  dragging  children  by  the  hand. 
At  night,  from  the  top  windows  of  the  villa,  flames  were 
still  seen  citywards.  At  Novara  a  battle  was  daily  expected 
which  should  decide  the  fate  of  Lombardy. 

At  last  Fra  Luca  brought  news  of  the  sad  event  which  had 
ended  the  war.  The  battle  was  ordered  on  the  ioth  of  April, 
but  when  the  duke  was  reviewing  his  forces,  prior  to  its  com- 
mencement, the  Swiss  mercenaries  refused  to  advance,  for 
they  had  been  secretly  bought  by  Trivulzio.  In  vain  II  Moro 
conjured  them  with  tears  not  to  bring  him  to  ruin,  and 
promised  them  extravagant  reward  in  recompense  for  fidelity. 
They  remained  obdurate. 

Then  Ludovico,  disguised  as  a  monk,  sought  to  flee ;  but  a 
Swiss  named  Schattenhalb  betrayed  him  to  the  French 
captains.  He  was  seized  and  carried  before  the  marshal, 
who  rewarded  the  Swiss  with  thirty  pieces  of  silver. 


CALM  WATERS— 1499-1500  299 

The  Sire  de  la  Tremouille  had  charge  of  the  prisoner  to 
escort  him  to  France.  He,  who,  in  the  words  of  the  court 
poet,  '  first  after  God  had  guided  the  wheel  of  Fortune,'  was 
placed  in  a  barred  cage  and  carried  in  a  cart,  like  a  trapped 
wild  beast.  The  duke  asked  one  favour  of  his  captors,  that 
he  might  carry  a  copy  of  the  Divina  Commedia  with  him 
into  his  exile,  %per  istudiari? 

Life  at  the  Villa  Melzi  became  daily  more  perilous.  The 
French  had  sacked  Lomellina.  The  Venetians  had  destroyed 
the  Martesana.  Robbers  roamed  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Vaprio ;  already  Messer  Gerolamo  Melzi  was  preparing  to 
carry  Francesco  and  Aunt  Bona  into  refuge  at  Chiavenna. 

Leonardo's  last  night  came ;  he  inscribed  in  his  diary  the 
thoughts  of  the  day: — ■ 

*  A  bird  having  little  tail  but  broad  wings,  flaps  them  with 
great  violence,  and  turns  so  that  the  wind  may  blow  under 
them  and  raise  her  aloft.  This  I  observed  watching  a  young 
hawk  above  the  canonry  of  Vaprio,  on  the  road  to  Bergamo, 
to-day,  April  14th.' 

And  in  the  margin  he  added  incidentally :  ■  II  Moro  has 
lost  his  state,  his  goods,  and  his  liberty;  not  one  of  his  under- 
takings will  be  achieved  by  himself.' 

The  overthrow  of  the  great  house  of  Sforza,  the  ruin  of 
the  man  he  had  served  for  sixteen  years,  were  to  him  of  far 
less  interest  than  the  flight  of  a  bird  of  prey. 


BOOK    XI 

THERE   SHALL    BE   WINGS — 150O 

'Pigliera  it  primo  volo  il  grande  ucello  sopra  del  dosso  del  suo  magn§ 
Cecero,  empiendo  Funiverso  del  stupore,  empiendo  di  sua  fama  tutte  It 
scritture,  e  gloria  eterna  al  nido  dove  nacque.' — Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(The  human  bird  shall  take  his  first  flight,  filling  the  world  with  amaze- 
ment, all  writings  with  his  fame,  and  bringing  eternal  glory  to  the  nest 
whence  he  sprang.) 


The  little  town  of  Vinci,  Leonardo's  native  place,  lay  on  the 
western  slope  of  Monte  Alba  no,  in  Tuscany,  between  Florence 
and  Pisa,  and  not  far  from  Empoli.  There  he  had  an  uncle, 
Ser  Francesco  da  "Vinci,  who  had  amassed  wealth  in  the  silk 
industry,  and  who,  unlike  the  rest  of  the  family,  was  friendly 
to  his  nephew.  Before  journeying  to  Romagna  the  painter 
proposed  to  visit  Ser  Francesco,  and  if  possible  to  leave 
Astro  in  his  charge,  the  unfortunate  smith  not  yet  having 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  his  fall.  Leonardo  hoped 
that  the  mountain  air,  with  quiet  and  rest,  might  accom- 
plish more  for  him  than  the  drugs  and  experimental  surgery 
of  ignorant  physicians.  The  artist,  who  had  been  in  Florence 
for  a  few  days,  journeyed  to  Vinci  alone,  riding  a  mule.  He 
left  the  town  by  the  Porta  a  Prato,  and  took  his  way 
along  the  banks  of  the  Arno ;  at  Empoli  he  left  the  high  road 
and  followed  a  narrow  and  winding  mountain  path.  The  day 
had  been  clouded  and  cool ;  at  evening  the  sun  set  in  a  bank 
of  mist  which  foreboded  a  north  wind.  The  prospect  on 
either  side  continually  widened ;  the  hills  became  higher ; 
and  though  their  undulations  were  still  gentle,  they  gave 
promise  of  higher  mountains  behind.  The  ground  was 
carpeted  with  scanty  herbage  of  a  dull  green ;  and  the  fields, 
with  fallow  stripes  of  brown  earth,  the  stone  walls,  the  grey 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WINGS— 1500  301 

olives  were  all  dull  and  whitish  in  tone,  suggestive  of  the 
calm,  the  simplicity,  the  poverty  of  the  north.  Here  and 
there  in  the  distance,  beside  some  solitary  chapel  or  farm- 
house with  yellow  walls  and  barred  windows,  dark  pointed 
cypresses,  such  as  may  be  seen  in  the  pictures  by  early 
Florentine  masters,  rose  against  quiet  hills  and  an  even 
background  of  clear,  delicately  gradated  sky. 

The  path  became  gradually  steeper,  the  air  fresher  and 
more  invigorating.  Sant'  Ausano,  Calistri,  Lucardi,  and  the 
Chapel  of  San  Giovanni  were  already  past.  Now  the  day 
closed,  and  one  by  one  the  stars  came  out  in  the  blue  sky, 
from  which  the  clouds  had  disappeared.  The  wind  freshened ; 
the  tramontana,  that  piercing  wind  from  the  Alps,  was 
beginning  to  blow.  Every  appearance  of  the  lowlands  had 
vanished  ;  as  the  plain  had  passed  into  hills,  so  now  the  hills 
passed  into  mountains.  Quite  suddenly,  at  a  turn  of  the 
road,  Vinci  came  in  sight,  a  little,  crowded,  stone-built  town, 
clustering  round  the  black  tower  of  its  ancient  castle,  cling- 
ing to  the  rock,  crowning  the  peaked  summit  of  a  low  but 
sharply  precipitous  hill.  Lights  were  gleaming  in  the  windows 
of  the  houses. 

At  the  cross-roads  near  the  foot  of  the  hill  there  was  a 
little  shrine  known  to  Leonardo  from  his  earliest  childhood ; 
a  clay  image  of  the  Virgin  glazed  in  blue  and  white,  before 
which  a  lamp  burned  continually.  As  he  passed  he  saw  a 
woman  kneeling,  bowed  together  dejectedly,  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands,  a  poor  peasant  woman,  in  a  thin  dark 
dress,  torn  and  weather-stained. 

'Caterina!'  murmured  Leonardo.  It  was  his  mother's 
name ;  she  too  had  prayed  here,  a  poor  peasant. 

After  crossing  the  swift  mountain  stream,  the  path  turned 
to  the  right  between  garden  walls  overgrown  with  weeds. 
Here  it  was  quite  dark,  and  the  traveller  did  not  see  the  rose- 
branch  which  kissed  his  face  as  he  passed,  and  scented  the 
air  with  balm.  He  dismounted  at  an  ancient  wooden  door 
let  into  the  wall,  and  knocked  with  a  stone  on  the  iron  cramp. 
It  was  the  house  which  had  belonged  to  Leonardo's  grand- 
father, and  from  him  had  passed  to  Ser  Francesco.  The 
painter  himself  had  spent  his  childhood  within  its  walls.  No 
one  answered  the  knock,  nor  was  there  for  a  long  time  any 
sound  but  the  rushing  of  the  mill-stream,  and  presently  the 
quavering  bark  of  an  old  watch-dog. 


3o2  THE  FORERUNNER 

An  old  man  came  out,  very  much  bowed  and  wrinkled, 
with  silvery  hair.  He  carried  a  lantern,  and  was  very  deaf 
and  rather  stupid,  so  that  it  took  him  time  to  understand  who 
Leonardo  was. 

However,  when  at  last  he  recognised  him  whom  he  had 
carried  in  his  arms  forty  years  earlier,  he  burst  into  tears  of 
joy,  dropped  his  lantern,  and,  stooping  over  the  painter's 
hand,  mumbled  it  with  his  lips,  sobbing  out : — 

lO  Signore!  Signore I  Leonardo  mioJ' — while  the  dog 
wagged  his  tail  to  please  the  old  gardener,  pretending  that 
he  clearly  comprehended  what  was  taking  place.  Gian 
Battista,  the  old  man,  explained  that  Ser  Francesco  was 
away  at  Marcigliano,  where  a  monk  of  his  acquaintance  had 
promised  a  drug  to  cure  him  of  the  stomach-ache ;  he  would 
not  be  home  for  two  days.  Leonardo  determined,  however, 
to  wait  for  him ;  more  especially  because  next  day  Boltraffio 
was  to  bring  up  Zoroastro  from  Florence. 

The  old  man  ushered  the  visitor  into  the  house,  and  bade 
his  grand-daughter,  a  pretty  fair-haired  girl  of  sixteen,  to 
prepare  supper.  Leonardo  declined  anything  but  bread, 
home-grown  wine,  and  iron-water  from  the  spring  on  the 
property.  Ser  Francesco,  though  well-to-do,  continued  the 
hardy,  simple  style  of  living  which  had  been  a  necessity  to 
his  forefathers,  and  his  house  was  anything  but  luxurious. 

Leonardo  entered  the  familiar  apartment,  at  once  kitchen 
and  parlour,  where  the  few  clumsy  chairs,  settles,  and  chests 
had  become  smooth  and  polished  with  age ;  a  dresser  carried 
heavy  pewter  dinner-plates,  and  medicinal  herbs  were  hang- 
ing from  the  beams  of  the  raftered  ceiling.  The  walls  were 
whitewashed,  and  quite  bare ;  there  was  a  brick  floor,  and 
an  immense  fireplace  begrimed  with  soot. 

All  this  was  as  Leonardo  remembered  it,  but  there  was 
one  innovation  ;  thick  dull  green  glass  had  been  inserted  in 
the  window-panes,  formerly  covered  only  with  oiled  cloth, 
causing  twilight  in  the  room  on  the  brightest  day.  Up- 
stairs, in  the  sleeping  rooms,  the  windows  were  protected  by 
wooden  shutters,  which  did  not  fit  close  enough  to  keep  out 
the  cold. 

The  gardener  made  a  fire  of  fragrant  juniper  and  mountain 
heather,  and  lit  a  hanging  earthenware  lamp,  in  shape  much 
like  the  lamps  found  in  Etruscan  tombs.  In  this  remote  corner 
of  Tuscany  the  furniture,  the  customs,  even  the  language  had 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WINGS— 1500  303 

preserved  traces  of  immemorial  antiquity.  While  the  young 
girl  was  preparing  the  supper  of  wine,  bread,  and  a  lettuce 
salad,  Leonardo  mounted  to  the  upper  rooms,  where  little 
had  been  changed  since  his  last  visit.  He  saw  the  same 
immense  four-poster  bed,  in  which  his  grandmother  had 
sometimes  permitted  him  to  sleep,  and  which  had  now 
passed,  with  the  other  heirlooms,  to  his  uncle  Francesco.  On 
the  wall  hung  the  well-remembered  crucifix,  the  image  of  the 
Madonna,  the  shell  for  holy  water,  a  bunch  of  dried  grass, 
called  nebbia,  and  a  book  of  Latin  prayers  in  cursive  script, 
written  on  paper  deeply  yellowed  by  time. 

Returning  to  the  parlour,  he  sat  in  the  chimney-corner, 
drank  from  a  wooden  cup  with  a  pleasant  scent  of  olive-wood, 
and  remaining  in  the  room  alone,  after  Gian  and  his  grand- 
daughter had  gone  to  bed,  abandoned  himself  to  happy 
recollections. 


II 

He  thought  of  his  father,  Ser  Piero  da  Vinci,  the  notary  of 
the  Florentine  Commune,  a  man  of  seventy,  white-haired, 
but  still  vigorous,  whom  he  had  seen  a  few  days  ago  at 
Florence,  in  his  house  in  the  Via  Ghibellina.  No  one  had 
ever  loved  life  better  than  Ser  Piero,  with  a  love  simple  and 
unabashed.  He  had  cherished  a  great  tenderness  for  his 
first-born,  but  his  legitimate  sons,  Antonio  and  Giuliano, 
fearing  lest  their  father  should  alienate  part  of  his  patrimony 
in  favour  of  the  bastard,  had  done  all  in  their  power  to 
induce  bad  blood  between  them. 

Leonardo  now  felt  himself  a  stranger  in  his  father's  house. 
His  youngest  half-brother,  Antonio,  was  more  especially 
prejudiced  against  him  on  account  of  his  supposed  atheism, 
for  Antonio  was  one  of  the  Piagnoni,  a  zealous  and  rigid 
follower  of  Savonarola,  and  also  a  conventional,  virtuous,  and 
money -loving  trader  of  the  guild  of  the  woolstaplers. 
Antonio  often  addressed  his  half-brother  on  the  subject  of 
the  Christian  faith,  the  need  for  repentance,  the  heresies  of 
the  philosophical  thinkers  of  the  day,  and  he  had  given  him 
a  book  compiled  by  himself,  a  Manual  of  the  Art  of  Saving 
the  Soul.  Leonardo  carried  this  book  in  his  pocket,  and 
now,  seated  in  his  uncle's  chimney-corner,  he  drew  it  forth. 


3<m  THE  FORERUNNER 

It  was  a  little  volume,  written  in  the  small  laborious  hand 
which  befitted  a  merchant's  office. 

1  The  book  of  confession  compiled  by  me,  Antonio  di  Ser 
Pietro  da  Vinci,  a  Florentine,  sent  to  Nanna,  my  sister-in- 
law;  most  useful  to  all  who  desire  to  confess  their  sins.' 

For  Leonardo,  his  brother's  book  breathed  the  air  of  con- 
ventional and  bourgeois  piety,  which  had  weighed  upon  his 
childhood,  and  had  been  an  inheritance  in  his  family.  A 
century  before  his  birth  the  founders  of  the  house  of  Vinci 
were  just  as  prudent,  just  as  avaricious,  just  as  pious  servants 
of  the  Florentine  Commune  as  was  now  Ser  Pietro,  his  father. 
Their  name  appeared  first  in  a  writing  of  1339,  where  mention 
was  made  of  one  Michele  da  Vinci,  a  notary.  Leonardo 
imagined  him  like  Antonio,  his  well-remembered  grandfather. 
Antonio  instructed  his  sons  to  aspire  to  nothing  over  high,  not 
to  fame,  nor  to  honours,  nor  to  public  office,  civil  or  military, 
nor  to  exceptional  wealth,  nor  to  exceptional  learning. 

1  Starsi  mezzanamente  I  cosa  piu  sicuraj  '  Tis  safest  to  keep 
the  mean,'  was  his  constant  saw;  and  Leonardo  remembered 
the  gravity  and  calm  assurance  with  which  he  enunciated 
this  infallible  rule. 

After  thirty  years'  absence,  sitting  under  the  roof  of  his 
grandfather's  house,  listening  to  the  moaning  wind  and 
watching  the  logs  burning  in  the  fireplace,  Leonardo  thought 
how  his  own  life  had  been  one  long  breach  of  this  'ant  and 
spider '  policy ;  had  been  an  exuberant  blossoming  which, 
according  to  his  brother  Antonio,  temperance  should  have 
measured  with  compasses  and  shorn  away  with  iron  shears. 

Ill 

Next  morning,  before  the  old  gardener  was  awake,  Leonardo 
left  the  house,  and  having  traversed  the  poor  little  town 
of  Vinci  ascended  to  Anchiano,  the  neighbouring  hamlet. 
The  path  was  steep,  and  as  on  the  previous  day,  the  sun 
colourless  and  wintry.  At  the  verge  of  the  horizon,  the  cold 
cloudless  blue  of  the  sky  melted  into  a  dull  purple.  The 
tramontana  blew  steadily  from  the  north,  whistling  mono- 
tonously in  the  ears.  The  vegetation  was  still  colourless  and 
poor;  little  meagre  vineyards  in  semicircles,  sparse  dull  grasses, 
mingled  with  fluttering  poppies;  on  all  sides  dusty  grey 
olives,  with  knotted,  blackened,  and  twisted  trunks  of  great 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WINGS— 1500  305 

antiquity.  Entering  Anchiano,  Leonardo  halted,  for  he  did 
not  recognise  the  place.  Where  had  been  the  Castello  degli 
Adimari  with  a  wine-shop  in  its  only  unruined  tower,  there 
was  now  a  vineyard  and  a  new  house,  with  smoothly  white- 
washed walls.  A  husbandman  digging  trenches  among  the 
vines,  explained  that  mine  host  of  the  tavern  having  died, 
the  land  had  been  sold  to  a  sheepbreeder  from  Orbignano, 
who  had  cleared  away  the  ruins,  and  made  a  vineyard  and  an 
olive-grove  on  their  site. 

Leonardo  had  good  reason  to  ask  after  that  little  tavern, 
for  it  was  there  he  had  been  born. 

Fifty  years  earlier,  the  village  wine-shop  had  been  lively 
enough.  It  stood  a  little  back  from  the  road,  its  signboard 
swinging  merrily.  The  inhabitants  of  the  surrounding 
hamlets  on  their  way  to  the  fairs  of  San  Miniato  or  Fucecchio, 
chamois-hunters,  mule-drivers,  custom-house  officers,  and 
other  persons  who  were  not  too  exclusive  in  their  taste  for 
company — all  met  here.  The  maid  of  the  tavern  was  a  girl 
of  sixteen,  an  orphan,  a  contadina  from  Vinci;  her  name 
Caterina. 

One  day,  in  the  spring-time  of  145 1,  Piero  di  Ser  Antonio 
da  Vinci,  a  young  notary  from  Florence,  was  called  to 
Anchiano  to  draw  up  an  agreement  for  the  lease  of  the  sixth 
part  of  a  certain  oil-press.  Business  concluded,  the  peasants 
invited  the  notary  to  drink  at  th^>  tavern  in  the  old  tower  of 
the  Adimari.  Ser  Piero,  always  affable,  even  among  simple 
folk,  accepted  the  invitation.  The  party  was  served  by 
Caterina,  and  the  young  notary,  as  he  afterwards  confessed, 
became  enamoured  at  first  sight.  Under  pretext  of  quail- 
shooting,  he  delayed  his  return  to  Florence  ;  he  haunted  the 
tavern,  and  laid  siege  to  Caterina.  Ser  Piero  was  already 
celebrated  as  a  conqueror  of  women  ;  he  was  four-and-twenty, 
handsome,  strong,  something  of  a  coxcomb.  He  possessed 
that  self-confident  eloquence  which  in  a  lover  is  irresistible. 
Caterina  hesitated,  prayed  to  the  Virgin  for  assistance,  finally 
succumbed.  At  the  time  when  the  quails  took  their  flight 
from  the  Val  di  Nievole,  she  was  with  child. 

Ser  Antonio  da  Vinci  soon  learned  that  his  son  had 
entangled  himself  with  the  maid-servant  at  a  village  hostelry. 
He  despatched  him  to  Florence  and  wedded  him  as  quickly  as 
possible  to  Madonna  Albiera  di  Ser  Giovanni  Amadori,  who 
was  neither  very  young  nor  very  fair,  but  had  a  substantial 
U 


306  THE  FORERUNNER 

dowry.  Caterina  he  mated  also  with  a  peasant  named 
Accattabrighe  di  Piero  del  Vacca,  who  was  said  to  have 
beaten  his  first  wife  to  death  in  a  drunken  fit.  The  girl 
resigned  herself  without  protest,  but  with  inward  grief  which 
threw  her  into  a  fever  when  she  was  brought  to  bed.  She 
was  unable  to  suckle  her  child,  and  the  little  Leonardo  was 
wet-nursed  by  a  goat  from  Monte  Albano.  Piero,  however, 
begged  his  father  to  take  Caterina's  child  to  be  bred  in  his 
house.  In  those  times  no  one  was  ashamed  of  bastards,  and 
they  were  frequently  educated  on  the  same  footing  as  their 
legitimate  brethren,  and  even  preferred  to  them.  Leonardo 
accordingly  entered  the  virtuous  and  pious  family  of  da  Vinci, 
and  was  entrusted  to  the  care  of  his  grandmother,  Lena  di 
Piero  da  Baccareto. 

As  the  vision  of  a  dream,  Leonardo  remembered  his 
mother;  more  especially  her  smile,  so  delicate,  so  fleeting,  full 
of  mystery,  and  gently  malicious  ;  singularly  in  contrast  with 
the  habitual  expression  of  her  beautiful  but  melancholy  face, 
which  to  some  seemed  even  harshly  severe.  Once  he  found 
that  smile  again,  on  the  face  of  a  small  antique  bronze  statue 
of  Cybele,  the  immemorially  ancient  goddess  of  the  earth ; 
the  same  subtle  smile  which  he  remembered  as  the  character- 
istic of  the  young  peasant  woman  of  Vinci — his  mother. 

He  thought: — 

'Ah,  how  the  mountain  women,  dressed  in  poor  coarse 
raiment,  excel  in  beauty  those  who  are  adorned  ! ' 

It  was  said  by  persons  who  had  known  Caterina  that  her 
son  resembled  her ;  his  long  and  slender  hands,  his  golden 
hair,  his  smile,  were  inherited  from  her.  From  his  father  he 
had  a  powerful  frame,  health,  zest  of  life ;  from  his  mother 
that  almost  feminine  charm.  Brought  up  in  the  paternal 
house,  Leonardo  had  never  been  entirely  separated  from  his 
mother.  Her  cottage  was  not  far  from  Ser  Antonio's  villa ; 
and  at  midday  when  Accattabrighe  had  gone  forth  with  the 
oxen,  the  boy  would  make  his  way  through  the  vineyard, 
climb  the  wall,  and  run  to  his  mother.  She  was  awaiting  him 
on  the  threshold,  distaff  in  hand;  she  stretched  out  her  arms, 
and  when  he  came  she  covered  his  eyes,  his  lips,  his  hair  with 
her  kisses.  Or  at  night  when  Accattabrighe  would  be  at  the 
tavern,  dicing  and  swilling,  the  child  would  escape  from  his 
bed,  crawl  through  the  window  and  down  the  fig-tree,  and 
run       Caterina's  home.     Sweet  to  him  was  the  cool  of  the 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WINGS— 1500  307 

dewy  grass,  the  cry  of  the  night-jar,  the  very  nettles  and  stones 
which  wounded  his  feet;  the  glow  of  the  far-off  stars,  and  the 
very  anxiety  lest  his  grandam  should  awake  and  miss  him. 

Yet  Monna  Lena  likewise  loved  and  pampered  her  grand- 
son, and  he  remembered  her  well,  her  one  vesture  of  dark 
brown,  her  white  kerchief,  her  dark,  wrinkled,  kind  old  face, 
her  lullabies,  and  the  appetising  odour  of  the  *  berlingozzi ' 
which  she  baked  after  the  ancient  Tuscan  recipe.  With  his 
grandfather  he  had  not  agreed  so  well.  At  first  Ser  Antonio 
had  taught  him  personally ;  but  Leonardo  was  an  unwilling 
pupil,  and  at  seven  he  was  sent  to  school  at  the  Oratory  of 
Santa  Petronilla.  But  neither  was  the  Latin  grammar  to  his 
liking.  He  played  truant,  wandering  to  a  wild  ravine  behind 
the  town  where  he  would  lie  on  his  back  watching  the  flight 
of  the  cranes  with  torturing  envy ;  or  unfolding  the  cups  of 
flowers,  wondering  at  their  coloured  petals  and  pollen-covered 
stamens,  moist  with  honey.  Sometimes  during  his  grand- 
father's absence  the  little  Nardo  would  escape  for  whole 
days  into  the  mountains,  making  his  way  by  the  tracks 
of  goats  and  along  the  edges  of  precipices  to  the  summit  of 
Monte  Albano.  Thence  he  could  see  a  boundless  expanse 
of  meadows,  pastures,  groves,  and  forests;  the  marshes  of 
Fucecchio;  and  Prato,  Pistoia,  Florence,  and  the  snowy 
peaks  of  the  Alps ;  when  the  sky  was  clear,  the  misty  blue 
of  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  At  last  he  would  return  home, 
dusty,  sunburnt,  his  hands  scratched,  his  garments  torn ;  but 
his  grandam,  seeing  his  happiness,  had  not  the  heart  to 
punish  him,  or  to  betray  him  to  Ser  Antonio.  The  boy  lived 
alone;  his  father  and  his  uncle  Francesco  he  saw  but  seldom, 
for  they  were  away  in  Florence  ;  with  his  schoolmates  he  did 
not  associate.  Their  sports  displeased  him  ;  on  one  occasion 
when  they  tore  the  wings  from  a  butterfly  and  laughed  at 
its  writhings,  he  frowned,  turned  pale,  and  went  away. 
Complaints  of  his  surliness  were  in  consequence  made  to 
Ser  Antonio ;  great  displeasure  followed,  threats  of  flogging, 
and  an  actual  imprisonment  for  three  days  in  a  cupboard 
under  the  staircase. 

Later,  recalling  this  link  in  a  long  chain  of  injustice,  he 
wrote  in  his  diary : — 

*  If  as  a  child  you  were  put  in  prison  for  doing  your  duty, 
what  will  they  do  to  you  as  a  man?' 


308  THE  FORERUNNER 

IV 

Not  far  from  Vinci  a  large  villa  was  in  course  of  construc- 
tion by  the  Florentine  architect,  Biagio  da  Ravenna,  a  pupil 
of  Alberti.  Leonardo  watched  the  raising  of  the  walls,  the 
levelling  of  the  stonework,  the  elevation  of  huge  blocks  by 
machinery.  One  day  Ser  Biagio  talked  with  the  lad,  and  was 
astonished  by  the  understanding  which  he  showed.  At  first 
in  jest,  then  seriously,  he  taught  him  the  first  principles  of 
arithmetic,  algebra,  geometry,  and  mechanics.  The  teacher 
marvelled  at  the  facility  with  which  the  boy  caught  each  idea  as 
it  were  on  the  wing,  and  made  it  his  own ;  it  seemed  as  though 
he  were  not  learning  but  remembering.  The  grandfather 
looked  askance  at  what  he  called  'caprices,'  and  he  thought 
it  a  bad  omen  that  the  boy  used  preferably  his  left  hand  when 
he  wrote ;  for  sorcerers,  necromancers,  and  those  who  make 
compacts  with  the  devil  are,  of  course,  always  born  left- 
handed  !  His  suspicion  of  the  lad  increased  when  a  neigh- 
bour from  Fortuniano  assured  him  that  the  old  woman  of  the 
village  on  Monte  Albano  who  had  provided  the  black  goat 
for  the  suckling  of  the  babe  was  an  undoubted  witch. 

'Do  what  you  will,' thought  the  old  notary,  'but  if  you 
bring  up  a  wolf  he  will  always  have  his  eye  on  the  forest. 
Well,  well !  Submit  to  the  will  of  Heaven !  There 's  no 
family  without  one  abortion.' 

And  he  waited  with  desperate  anxiety  for  the  birth  of  a 
legitimate  heir  to  Piero,  his  favourite  son ;  since  Nardo,  the 
product  of  illicit  love,  was  showing  himself  thus  clearly  '  ill- 
born  '  into  this  eminently  respectable  family.  'Twas  a  tale  of 
Monte  Albano,  which  indeed  accounted  for  its  name,  that 
many  plants  and  animals  there  mysteriously  changed  their 
natural  colour  into  white ;  so  that  the  traveller,  roaming  its 
woods  and  meadows,  would  chance  upon  white  violets,  white 
strawberries,  white  sparrows,  white  nestlings  in  a  brood  of 
blackbirds.  In  like  manner  the  little  Nardo  was  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  White  Mountain ;  a  changeling  in  the  virtuous 
and  commonplace  family  of  the  Florentine  notary;  a  big 
white  cuckoo  in  a  nest  of  blackbirds. 


When  the  boy  had  reached  the  age  of  thirteen,  his  father 
removed  him  from  Vinci  to  his  house.      Florence ;  since  then. 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WINGS— 1500  309 

he  had  rarely  visited  his  birthplace.  But  long  after,  in  one  of 
his  note-books  of  the  year  1494,  when  he  was  in  the  service 
of  the  Duke  of  Milan,  he  wrote,  'Caterina,  came  in  July 
last  year.  It  might  signify  the  beginning  of  some  kitchen 
wench's  service;  in  reality  it  referred  to  his  mother.  Her 
husband  had  died,  and  feeling  that  her  own  time  might  be 
short,  she  desired  to  see  her  son  at  least  once  again.  She 
joined  a  party  of  pilgrims  on  their  way  to  Milan  for  adoration 
of  the  Holy  Nail ;  journeyed  from  Tuscany,  and  presented 
herself  at  Leonardo's  house.  He  received  her  with  pious 
affection  ;  for  her  he  was  ever  the  little  Nardo,  who  had  come 
secretly  by  night  with  bare  feet  and  ne?tled  at  her  side. 

She  would  have  returned  to  Anchiano,  but  her  son  would 
not  permit  it.  He  placed  her  in  a  quiet  and  commodiously- 
fitted  cell  of  the  Convent  of  Santa  Chiara,  near  the  Porta 
Vercellina.  Later  she  fell  ill,  and  at  her  own  request  was 
taken  to  the  Ospedale  Maggwre,  built  by  Francesco  Sforza 
and  the  finest  hospital  in  Milan.  Here  he  visited  her  for 
months  every  day,  at  the  last  scarcely  leaving  her  for  an  hour. 
Yet  he  had  told  none  of  his  friends  nor  even  his  pupils  of 
her  presence  in  Milan. 

But  when  for  the  last  time  he  had  pressed  his  lips  on  the 
cold  hand  of  this  peasant  woman  who  had  been  his  mother, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  to  her  he  owed  everything.  He 
honoured  her  with  a  sumptuous  funeral. 

Six  years  later,  after  the  fall  of  Ludovico  Sforza,  when  he 
was  leaving  Milan,  he  found  a  small  carefully  wrapped  bundle 
in  one  of  his  chests.  It  contained  a  couple  of  coarse  canvas 
shirts  and  three  pair  of  goats'-hair  stockings,  all  made  by 
Caterina's  hand,  and  brought  to  him  from  Vinci.  He  had 
never  worn  them,  but  now  coming  upon  the  poor  things 
among  his  scientific  books  and  mechanical  apparatus,  and 
the  garments  of  fine  linen  to  which  he  had  habituated 
himself,  he  felt  inexpressibly  touched.  Nor  in  the  years 
which  followed,  when  he  was  a  solitary  and  weary  wanderer 
from  country  to  country,  from  town  to  town,  did  he  ever  omit 
to  take  this  poor  little  parcel  with  him,  packed  among  the 
dearest  of  his  treasures. 

VI 

Such  were  Leonardo's  recollections  as  he  climbed  the 
slopes  of  Monte  Albano,  familiar  to  him  in  his  childhood. 


3io  THE  FORERUNNER 

He  sat  down  under  the  shelter  of  a  rock  and  surveyed  the 
well-remembered  landscape.  Dwarfed  and  gnarled  oak-trees 
surrounded  him  still  hung  with  withered  leaves,  perfumed 
juniper,  which  the  peasants  called  scopa  (besom),  pale  shy 
violets,  and  low  bushes  of  dried  mountain  heather,  exhaled 
that  intangible  freshness  which  is  the  odour  of  spring.  Far 
away  the  valley  of  the  Arno  met  the  sky ;  but  to  the  right 
rose  bare  lofty  mountains  with  undulating  shadows,  twisted 
hollows  like  gigantic  serpents,  and  wide  ravines,  delicate 
purple  in  colour.  At  his  feet  was  Anchiano,  white  and 
shining  in  the  sunlight ;  further  away,  Vinci  clung  to  its  little 
conical  hill  like  a  wasp's  nest ;  the  castle  tower  distinct  and 
black  as  the  two  cypresses  by  the  side  of  the  Anchiano  road. 

Nothing  was  changed  since  the  day  when  he  had  first 
climbed  these  paths.  Forty  years  before  the  scopa  had 
grown  as  luxuriantly,  the  violets  and  thyme  had  scented 
the  air,  the  oaks  had  rustled  their  withered  leaves ;  as  now, 
Monte  Albano  had  seemed  colourless,  bare,  northern.  Etruria 
of  the  ancients,  now  Tuscany,  land  of  perpetual  spring, 
land  of  unfailing  renaissance — to  Leonardo  it  wore  that 
subtle  and  tender  smile  brightening  a  beauty  otherwise  too 
austere,  which  he  had  first  seen  on  the  countenance  of 
Caterina  his  peasant  mother. 

He  rose  and  pursued  his  way,  the  path  growing  more 
rugged,  the  wind  colder,  sharper,  more  northerly.  Memories 
of  his  youth  crowded  upon  his  soul 

VII 

Ser  Piero  da  Vinci  had  prospered.  Skilful  and  good- 
hearted,  his  life  ran  upon  greased  wheels.  Live  and  let  live, 
was  his  maxim,  and  he  stood  well  with  all,  more  especially 
with  the  clerical  party.  Procurator  of  the  monastery  of  the 
Santissima  Annunziata,  and  of  many  other  rich  foundations, 
he  acquired  wealth  in  abundance,  adding  largely  to  his 
property,  but  never  changing  the  modest  fashion  of  life  which 
he  had  learned  from  Ser  Antonio.  His  wife  died  when  he 
was  eight-and-thirty,  but  he  soon  married  a  young  and  beauti- 
ful girl,  Madonna  Francesca  di  Ser  Giovanni  Lanfredini. 
She,  like  her  predecessor,  was  childless ;  and  Leonardo,  the 
bastard,  lived  with  his  father,  and  had  every  prospect  of 
becoming  his  heir. 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WINGS— 1500  311 

At  that  time  Paola  dal  Pozzo  Toscanelli,  a  famous 
astronomer  and  mathematician,  lived  at  Florence.  He  had 
written  a  letter  to  Christopher  Columbus,  assuring  him  on 
the  authority  of  his  calculations  that  the  route  to  India  by 
the  Antipodes  was  neither  so  long  nor  so  arduous  as  had 
been  supposed,  encouraging  him  to  make  the  adventure,  and 
prophesying  its  success.  Columbus  therefore  carried  out 
what  had  been  conceived  in  the  lonely  cell  of  the  Florentine 
scholar,  and  was,  as  it  were,  the  instrument  played  by  the 
hand  of  a  skilled  musician.  Toscanelli  was  said  by  his 
contemporaries  to  'live  like  a  saint';  reserved,  frugal,  chaste, 
he  frequented  neither  the  brilliant  Medicean  court,  nor  the 
vain  assemblies  of  the  Neo-Platonist  imitators  of  antiquity. 
His  face  was  curiously  ugly,  but  redeemed  by  eyes  of  great 
brilliance. 

One  evening  a  lad,  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  knocked  at 
his  door  and  was  coldly  received,  being  suspected  of  mere 
idle  curiosity.  But  short  conversation  with  the  young 
Leonardo — for  it  was  he — convinced  the  astronomer,  as 
before  it  had  convinced  Biagio  da  Ravenna,  of  his  wonderful 
aptitude  for  mathematics.  Ser  Paola  became  his  teacher; 
on  summer  nights  they  went  together  to  Poggio  del  Pino, 
one  of  those  fragrant,  pine-clad,  heather-carpeted  hills, 
girdling  the  City  of  Flowers ;  there  Toscanelli  had  built  his 
observatory.  He  taught  the  boy  all  he  himself  knew  of  the 
laws  of  the  universe.  It  was  from  these  lessons  that 
Leonardo  dated  his  faith  in  the  experimental  study  of  nature, 
as  yet  too  much  neglected  by  the  philosophers. 

Ser  Piero  da  Vinci,  though  he  put  no  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  his  son's  studies,  advised  him  to  choose  some  more 
lucrative  occupation ;  having  noticed  his  bent  towards 
modelling  and  drawing,  he  showed  some  of  the  boy's  work  to 
Andrea  Verrocchio,  the  painter  and  goldsmith;  and  shortly 
afterwards  Leonardo  was  formally  entered  as  one  of  this 
artist's  pupils. 

VIII 

Verrocchio,  the  son  of  a  poor  furnace-stoker,  was  seventeen 
years  the  senior  of  Leonardo.  His  face  was  placid,  flat,  and 
pale,  with  a  double  chin.  Only  in  his  tight  shut  lips  and 
piercing  eyes  was  there  evidence  of  singular  intelligence. 
Spectacles  on  nose,  magnifier  in  hand,  he  sat  in  his  dark 


312  THE  FORERUNNER 

bottega  near  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  looking  more  like  a  small 
shopkeeper  than  a  great  artist.  A  disciple  of  Paolo  Uccello, 
he,  like  his  master,  affirmed  that  Perspective  must  be  based 
on  science.  *  Geometry/  he  said,  'being  a  part  of  mathe- 
matics, mother  of  all  knowledge,  is  also  the  mother  of 
drawing,  which  is  the  father  of  all  the  arts.'  Complete 
knowledge  and  complete  enjoyment  of  beauty  were  to  him 
identical.  Unlike  Botticelli,  and  others  of  his  kidney, 
Verrocchio  was  neither  ravished  by  extraordinary  beauty  nor 
repelled  by  unusual  deformity.  In  both  he  found  occasion 
for  study.  He  was  also  the  first  master  who  made  anatomical 
models.  If  Botticelli  had  found  the  fascination  of  art  in  the 
miraculous,  in  the  fabulous,  in  that  mystic;  haze  which  con- 
founds Olympus  with  Golgotha — for  Verrocchio  it  lay  in 
patient  investigation  and  a  firm  grasp  of  the  verities  of  nature. 
The  miraculous  was  not  true  for  him.  Truth  was  the 
miracle. 

This  was  the  man  to  whom  Ser  Piero  brought  his  seventeen- 
year-old  son ;  he  became  Leonardo's  teacher ;  further,  he 
became  his  disciple.  The  monks  of  Vallombrosa  had  com- 
missioned Ser  Andrea  to  paint  them  a  Baptism  of  Christ, 
and  the  master  set  his  pupil  to  execute  the  kneeling  angel 
which  formed  part  of  the  composition.  The  result  showed 
Verrocchio  that  his  scholar  knew  intuitively  and  clearly  all 
that  he  himself  had  dimly  guessed  and  sought  for  gropingly, 
slowly  and  laboriously,  through  a  fog. 

Later  it  was  said  that  Verrocchio  gave  up  painting  because 
jealous  of  the  young  man's  superiority ;  in  reality  there  was 
never  anything  but  harmony  between  the  two.  Each  supplied 
the  deficiency  of  the  other.  The  pupil  had  lightness  and 
precision  of  touch ;  Verrocchio,  perseverance  and  concen- 
trated attention.  They  worked  together  without  envy,  without 
rivalry,  scarce  knowing  how  much  they  owed  each  other. 

At  that  time  Verrocchio  executed  the  bronze  group  for 
Orsanmichele,  which  was  known  as  the  *  Incredulity  of  St. 
Thomas.'  It  was  altogether  unlike  the  celestial  dreams  of 
the  Beato  Angelico  or  the  delirious  idealism  of  Sandro 
Botticelli.  In  St.  Thomas's  mysterious  smile,  as  he  put  his 
fingers  into  the  print  of  the  nails,  was  exhibited  for  the 
first  time  the  boldness  of  man  before  his  God ;  Reason  face 
to  face  with  Miracle. 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WINGS— 1500  313 


IX 

Leonardo's  first  independent  work  was  a  cartoon  for  a 
curtain  of  Flanders  tissue,  a  gift  from  the  Florentines  to  the 
King  of  Portugal.  The  subject  was  the  Fall  of  Man ;  and 
such  was  the  accuracy  with  which  the  palm  branches,  the 
flowers,  and  the  animals  of  Paradise  were  drawn,  that  Vasari 
the  critic  was  stupefied  at  so  great  patience. 

Eve,  stretching  out  her  hand  to  the  Tree  of  Knowledge, 
wore  the  same  smile  of  bold  curiosity  which  Verrocchio  had 
given  to  St.  Thomas. 

A  little  later  Ser  Piero  employed  his  son  to  paint  one  of 
those  round  wooden  shields  called  rotelle,  which  were  used 
as  ornaments  for  houses,  and  which  generally  carried  some 
allegorical  design.  Leonardo  painted  an  animal,  terrible  as 
the  face  of  Medusa.  He  had  collected  lizards,  snakes, 
crickets,  spiders,  centipedes,  moths,  scorpions,  bats,  every 
sort  of  noxious  creature,  and  had  studied  their  characteristics. 
By  a  process  of  selection  and  exaggeration  of  their  individual 
truth,  he  had  put  together  a  monster,  such  as  had  never 
existed,  yet  which  might  have  been  possible,  deducing  what 
is  not  from  what  is  with  the  precision  of  an  Euclid  or  a 
Pythagoras.  The  beast  was  issuing  from  its  den  in  the  rock  ; 
grating  its  black  and  shining  scales  upon  the  gravel.  Fetor 
exhaled  from  its  gaping  jaws,  smoke  from  its  nostrils;  its 
eyes  were  flame.  Horrible  as  was  the  monster,  the  wonder 
of  it  lay  less  in  its  deformity  than  in  its  charm,  which  was  no 
less  powerful  than  the  charm  of  beauty. 

Day  and  night  Leonardo  had  studied  and  painted  in  the 
stifling  room  empoisoned  by  the  stench  from  the  dead 
reptiles ;  at  last  the  picture  was  finished,  and  he  summoned 
his  father  to  see  it.  He  had  placed  it  on  a  wooden  stand 
surrounded  by  black  cloth,  the  light  being  so  disposed  that 
only  the  monster  was  illuminated.  Ser  Piero  came  in,  saw 
the  beast,  and  involuntarily  drew  back.  Recovering  himself, 
he  looked  again,  and  his  expression  changed  from  great  fear 
to  great  pleasure. 

'The  rotella  is  ready/  said  Leonardo;  'it  produces  the 
effect  at  which  I  have  aimed.     You  may  take  it  away/ 

Next  he  received  an  order  for  an  'Adoration  of  the 
Magi  •  from  the  monks  of  San  Donato  a  Scopeto.      In  the 


3H  THE  FORERUNNER 

sketch  for  this  picture  he  exhibited  a  knowledge  of  anatomy 
and  of  the  outward  expression  of  the  emotions,  surpassing 
that  of  any  previous  painter.  Against  a  background  almost 
Hellenic  in  its  beauty,  he  showed  the  Mother  of  God  with 
the  divine  Infant,  who,  smiling  shyly,  seemed  to  marvel  at 
the  precious  gifts  brought  by  the  strangers.  They,  wearied 
and  bowed  down  by  the  load  of  ancient  and  earthly  wisdom, 
bending  their  heads,  shading  their  eyes,  were  absorbed  in 
contemplation  of  that  miracle  of  miracles,  the  Epiphany  of 
God  in  man. 

In  his  picture  of  the  Fall,  Leonardo  had  realised  the 
boldness  of  reason — the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  j  in  this  of 
the  Adoration  he  had  shown  the  innocence  of  the  dove,  the 
humility  of  faith.  One  picture  the  complement  of  the  other ; 
the  two  exhibited  the  full  circle  of  his  philosophy. 

But  the  second  picture  was  never  finished.  In  the  quest 
for  perfection  he  made  difficulties  for  himself  which  his 
brush  could  not  overcome.  In  the  words  of  Petrarch,  W 
dissetamento  era  d'ostacolo  Peccessiva  bratna* — 'excessive  thirst 
hindered  its  own  quenching.' 

Meanwhile,  Ser  Piero  married  his  third  wife,  Margherita, 
who  brought  him  two  sons,  Antonio  and  Giuliano.  The 
step-mother  hated  Leonardo,  and  accused  her  husband  of 
wasting  the  inheritance  of  his  lawful  children  upon  a  bastard, 
foster-child  of  a  witch's  goat.  The  young  painter  had 
enemies  also  among  his  fellow-students;  and  it  was  one  of 
them  who  brought  against  him  and  against  Verrocchio  the 
accusation  of  which  Cesare  da  Sesto  had  told  Giovanni 
Boltraffio.  The  calumny  had  acquired  some  verisimilitude 
from  the  exceptional  friendship  between  master  and  scholar, 
and  from  the  fact  that  Leonardo,  though  the  handsomest 
man  of  young  Florence — ('in  his  exterior,  says  a  contem- 
porary, there  was  such  radiance  of  beauty  that  at  sight  of 
him  sad  hearts  were  gladdened') — eschewed  the  society  of 
women.  The  accusation  came  to  nothing,  but  he  left 
Verrocchio,  and  henceforth  painted  independently. 

Reports  now  got  about  touching  his  heresies  and  atheism, 
and  it  became  increasingly  difficult  for  him  to  remain  in 
Florence.  Ser  Piero  introduced  him  to  Lorenzo  de'  Medici; 
uselessly,  however,  for  //  Magnifico  disapproved  spirits  too 
daring  and  unconventional,  and  demanded  a  constant  and 
servile  adulation  which  Leonardo  was  ill  fitted  to  supply. 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WINGS— 1500  315 

The  tedium  of  inaction  oppressed  him.  He  entered  into 
negotiations  with  the  Egyptian  ambassador  for  the  purpose 
of  obtaining  the  post  of  chief  architect  to  the  '  diodario ' 
of  Syria,  though  he  knew  that  it  would  require  his  embracing 
the  Mahometan  faith.  His  one  desire  was  to  escape  from 
Florence.  Chance  favoured  him.  He  made  a  many-stringed 
silver  lute  in  the  form  of  a  horse's  head,  which  took  Lorenzo 
de'  Medici's  fancy.  Lorenzo  sent  it  by  the  hand  of  the 
inventor  to  Milan,  as  a  gift  to  Ludovico  Sforza. 

Leonardo  was  received  at  the  Lombard  court  not  as  a  man 
of  science,  not  as  a  painter,  but  as  the  sonatore  di  lira — the 
■•  player  of  the  lyre.' 

But  before  starting  he  had  written  a  long  letter  to  the  duke, 
setting  forth  how  useful  he  might  be  to  him. 

*  Most  Illustrious  Lord, — Having  studied  and  estimated  the 
works  of  the  present  inventors  of  warlike  engines,  I  have  found 
that  in  them  there  is  nothing  novel  to  distinguish  them.  I 
therefore  force  myself  to  address  your  Excellency  that  I  may 
disclose  to  him  the  secrets  of  my  art. 

4 1  st.  I  have  a  method  for  bridges,  very  light  and  very  strong ; 
easy  of  transport  and  incombustible. 

'2nd.  New  means  of  destroying  any  fortress  or  castle  (which 
hath  not  foundations  hewn  of  solid  rock)  without  the  employ- 
ment of  bombards. 

'3rd.  Of  making  mines  and  passages,  immediately  and  noise- 
lessly, under  ditches  and  streams. 

'4th.  I  have  designed  irresistible  protected  chariots  for  the 
carrying  of  artillery  against  the  enemy. 

'5th.  I  can  construct  bombards,  cannon,  mortars,  'passa- 
volanti ' :  all  new  and  very  beautiful. 

'6th.  Likewise  battering  rams,  machines  for  the  casting  of 
projectiles,  and  other  astounding  engines. 

'7th.  For  sea-combats  I  have  contrivances  both  offensive 
and  defensive ;  ships  whose  sides  would  repel  stone  and  iron 
balls,  and  explosives,  unknown  to  any  soul. 

'8th.  In  days  of  peace,  I  should  hope  to  satisfy  your 
Excellency  in  architecture,  in  the  erection  of  public  and 
private  buildings,  in  the  construction  of  canals  and  aqueducts. 
I  am  acquainted  with  the  arts  of  sculpture  and  painting, 
and  can  execute  orders  in  marble,  metal,  clay,  or  in  painting 
with  oil,  as  well  as  any  artist.  And  I  can  undertake  that 
equestrian  statue  cast  in  bronze,  which  shall  eternally  glorify 


3i6  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  blessed  memory  of  your  lordship's  father  and  of  the 
illustrious  house  of  Sforza. 

'And  if  any  of  the  above  seem  extravagant  or  beyond  the 
reach  of  possibility,  I  offer  myself  prepared  to  make  experi- 
ment in  your  park ;  or  in  whatsoever  place  it  may  please  your 
Excellency  to  appoint;  to  whose  gracious  attention  I  most 
humbly  recommend  myself.  Leonardo  da  Vinci.' 

When  he  caught  his  first  glimpse  of  the  snow-clad  Alps 
shining  above  the  green  plain  of  Lombardy,  he  felt  himself 
entering  upon  a  new  life,  in  a  strange  land  which  was  to  be- 
come his  true  country. 

X 

Such  was  the  half  century  of  life  upon  which  Leonardo 
looked  back  as  he  ascended  Monte  Albano.  The  path  had 
become  direct,  vegetation  was  left  below,  the  mountains 
were  bare,  solitary,  and  terrible,  as  belonging  to  another 
planet.  He  was  blinded  by  fierce  gusts  of  icy  wind. 
Stones  breaking  away  from  his  feet  fell  noisily  into  the 
ravine.  He  was  still  ascending,  and  at  every  step  the  prospect 
widened.  He  found  exhilaration  in  the  effort  of  climbing, 
gradually  conquering  the  great  mountains  and  compelling 
them  to  give  up  their  treasures.  Florence  was  out  of  sight, 
but  the  spacious  district  of  Empoli  was  spread  at  his  feet ;  first 
the  mountains,  cold  dull  purple  with  broad  shadows ;  then  the 
unnumbered  billowy  hills  from  Livorno  to  San  Geminiano. 
Everywhere  was  air,  emptiness,  space.  The  narrow  footpath 
seemed  to  vanish;  he  fancied  himself  flying  over  this 
boundless  expanse  on  gigantic  wings.  The  realisation  that 
he  had  no  such  equipment  produced  in  his  mind  the 
wondering  alarm  felt  by  a  man  who  is  suddenly  deprived  of 
his  legs.  He  remembered  how  in  boyhood  he  used  to 
watch  the  flight  of  cranes;  and  how,  hearing  their  cry,  he 
had  fancied  it  a  summons  to  himself,  and  had  wept  for  dis- 
appointment that  he  could  not  obey.  He  remembered  releas- 
ing his  grandfather's  cage-birds,  and  joying  in  the  wild  swoops 
of  their  recovered  liberty.  He  remembered  listening  to  the 
tale  of  Icarus,  who  had  thought  to  fly  on  waxen  wings,  but  had 
fallen  and  perished;  and  how,  when  bidden  by  his  teacher 
to  name  the  greatest  of  ancient  heroes,  he  had  answered 
without  a  moment's  hesitation  '  Icarus,  son  of  Daedalus.'  He 
remembered,  too,  his  pleasure  in  finding  a  clumsy  representa- 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WIKGS— 1500  317 

tion  of  his  hero  among  the  bas-reliefs  of  Giotto's  campanile 
in  Florence.  He  retained  one  other  memory  of  his  childhood 
which,  however  absurd  it  might  have  seemed  to  another,  had 
for  him  a  prophetic  meaning.     He  wrote  of  it : — 

1 1  remember  that  once  in  infancy,  lying  in  my  cradle,  I 
fancied  that  a  kite  flew  to  me  and  opened  my  lips,  and 
rubbed  his  feathers  over  them.  It  would  seem  to  be  my 
destiny  all  my  life  to  talk  about  wings.' 

The  question  of  human  flight  had  indeed  become  the  pre- 
occupation of  his  whole  life.  Now,  even  as  forty  years  before, 
standing  again  on  the  slope  of  the  White  Mountain  it  seemed 
to  him  an  intolerable  injury,  even  an  impossibility,  that  men 
should  remain  wingless. 

*  He  who  knows  all  can  do  all,' thought  Leonardo.  '  I  have 
only  to  know ;  and  there  shall  be  wings.' 

XI 

On  one  of  the  final  zigzags  of  the  path  he  felt  himself 
touched  from  behind,  and  turning  saw  Giovanni  Boltraffio 
who,  hat  in  hand,  eyes  half  shut,  head  bent,  was  battling 
with  the  wind,  and  had  evidently  been  calling  for  some  time 
unheard.  When  he  saw  the  Master  with  long  hair  streaming 
on  the  blast,  and  look  of  indomitable  will,  his  thoughtful 
eyes,  deep  lines  on  his  forehead,  and  over-hanging  brows 
contracted  in  a  frown,  seemed  to  the  disciple  so  strange 
and  terrible  as  to  be  barely  recognisable.  Even  the  broad 
folds  of  his  red  cloak  bellying  in  the  wind  were  like  the 
pinions  of  some  strange  bird. 

Giovanni  shouted  as  loud  as  he  could,  but  he  was  so  much 
out  of  breath  he  could  only  articulate  broken  phrases. 

'Just  come — from  Florence.  Letter — important — told  to 
give  it  into  your  hands  at  once ! ' 

Leonardo  guessed  at  a  communication  from  Caesar  Borgia, 
and  quickly  recognised  the  writing  of  Messer  Agapito  his 
secretary. 

*  Go  down  at  once,'  said  Leonardo,  seeing  Giovanni  blue 
with  cold.  '  I  will  follow  you  immediately.'  And  he  watched 
Boltramo  as  he  fought  his  way  through  the  storm,  clinging 
to  frail  boughs  of  low-growing  shrubs,  crawling  over  rocks, 
bending  double,  absurdly  small  and  weak  in  comparison 
with  his  surroundings  and  the  fury  of  the  elements.     He 


3iS  THE  FORKRUNNER 

appeared  an  epitome  of  all  human  weakness ;  and,  watching 
him,  Leonardo  was  reminded  of  the  curse  of  some  grave 
impotence  which  seemed  to  have  lain  upon  his  whole  life,  which 
had,  he  feared,  condemned  him  to  eternal  sterility,  besides 
depriving  him  of  the  sympathy  of  his  fellows. 

*  My  Wings ! '  he  thought,  *  Ah !  will  not  they  fail  like 
everything  else  ? ' 

And  he  remembered  the  words  spoken  by  Astro  in  his 
delirium,  the  answer  of  the  Son  of  Man  when  the  devil  would 
have  seduced  him  by  the  terror  of  the  abyss,  by  the  fascina- 
tion of  flight :     *  Thou  shalt  not  tempt  the  Lord  thy  God  ! ' 

He  raised  his  head,  set  his  teeth,  and  again  addressed  him- 
self to  the  ascent,  conquering  the  mountain  and  the  storm. 
The  path  had  disappeared.  He  guided  himself  over  the 
bare  rocks  where,  perhaps,  none  had  trodden  before.  Sud- 
denly he  found  himself  upon  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  till  now 
unseen ;  misty  dull  purple  filled  with  air  and  yawned  beneath 
his  feet  as  if  the  void  and  endless  heaven  were  below  no  less 
than  above.  The  wind  had  become  a  hurricane,  and  howled 
and  roared  like  continuous  thunder.  Leonardo  could  have 
fancied  that  unseen  evil  birds — flock  after  flock — were  sweep- 
ing past  him  on  gigantic  wings.  No  further  advance  was 
possible ;  never  had  the  long  familiar  idea  appealed  to  him 
with  such  force;  never  had  he  been  so  impressed  by  the 
logic,  by  the  necessity,  of  the  power  of  flight. 

*  There  shall  be  wings  I'  he  cried,  'if  the  accomplishment 
be  not  for  me,  'tis  for  some  other.  It  shall  be  done.  The 
spirit  cannot  lie ;  and  Man,  who  shall  know  all  and  who  shall 
have  wings,  shall  indeed  be  as  a  god.' 

And  he  pictured  to  himself  the  King  of  the  Air,  Him  who 
can  pass  all  bounds  and  supersede  all  the  laws  which  limit 
human  intelligence,  the  Son  of  Man  cominc:  in  his  glory  and 
power,  the  Magno  Cecero,  'the  Great  Swan,'  borne  on  wings 
immense,  white,  shining  as  light  itself,  in  the  blue  of  heaven. 

And  his  soul  was  filled  with  a  joy  akin  to  terror. 


XII 

As  he  descended  from  Monte  Albano  the  sun  was  setting. 
The  pointed  cypresses  were  black  against  the  golden  sky ;  the 
receding  mountains  tender  and  translucent  as  amethyst.    The 


THERE  SHALL  BE  WINGS— 1500  319 

wind  had  subsided.  He  was  approaching  Anchiano,  and  the 
hill  town  of  Vinci  was  already  in  sight. 

He  stopped,  and  murmured  : — 

'  From  the  mountain  which  takes  its  name  from  the  con- 
queror (Vinci — Vincere)  Man  shall  take  his  first  flight ! ' 

And  gazing  at  his  birthplace,  there  at  the  foot  of  the  White 
Mountain,  he  repeated :  '  Eternal  glory  to  the  nest  from 
whence  he  sprang  !  ■ 

The  letter  from  Messer  Agapito  announced  the  approaching 
siege  of  Faenza,  and  demanded  the  immediate  presence  of  the 
new  engineer  and  architect  in  Caesar  Borgia's  camp. 

Two  days  later  Leonardo  left  Florence  for  Romagna. 


BOOK    XII 


•Aut  Cesar  aut  Nihil.' 

Cesar  Borgia. 

1 500-1 503 

'A  prince  must  be  a  beast  as  well  as  a  man.' 

Niccol6  Machiavelli. — //  Principe 


1  We,  Caesar  Borgia  of  France,  by  the  Grace  of  God,  Duke  of 
Romagna,  Lord  of  Piombino,  Gonfaloniere  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Church,  and  Captain-General, 

'To  all  our  lieutenants,  castellans,  captains,  condottieri, 
officers,  and  subjects ; 

'  We  commend  unto  you  the  most  famous  and  well-beloved 
Leonardo  Vinci,  our  architect  and  chief  war-engineer,  and 
command  that  ye  give  him  everywhere  unhindered  passage, 
permitting  him  to  examine,  measure,  and  judge  of  every- 
thing he  may  desire  to  see  in  our  fortresses,  and  affording 
him  all  co-operation,  and  as  many  men  as  he  may  need  to 
help  him.  And  we  bid  our  other  contractors  to  enter  into 
accord  in  all  matters  with  the  will  of  the  above-mentioned 
Leonardo,  to  whom  we  entrust  the  oversight  of  all  the 
fortresses  and  castles  in  our  dominions. 

c  Given  at  Pavia  on  August  18th,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord, 
1502,  and  the  second  of  our  reign  in  Romagna. 
1  Caesar,  dux  Romandiolae/ 

So  ran  Leonardo's  new  credentials. 

These  were  the  years  in  which  Caesar  Borgia  was  gradually 
recovering  for  Alexander  VI.  the  ancient  States  of  the  Church, 
said  to  have  been  conferred  on  the  papacy  by  Constantine 
the   Great.      He  had  taken  the  town  of  Faenza  from  the 


AUT  CiESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        321 

eighteen-year-old  Astorre  Manfredi ;  and  Forll  from  Caterina 
Sforza.  The  lad  and  the  woman  had  been  confided  to  his 
protection.  He  threw  them  both  into  the  Castle  of  St. 
Angelo.  He  concluded  a  fraudulent  treaty  with  the  Duke  of 
Urbino,  and  in  1502  planned  a  campaign  against  Bologna. 
He  was  intent  upon  making  himself  sole  and  absolute  ruler 
of  Italy.  In  September  his  enemies,  including  the  dukes 
of  Perugia  and  Siena,  as  well  as  other  important  personages, 
assembled  at  Mugione,  and  concluded  a  secret  alliance 
against  him.  Vitellozzo  Vitelli  swore  the  oath  of  Hannibal, 
that  within  a  year  he  would  slay,  imprison,  or  exile  the 
common  foe.  Report  of  this  alliance  having  been  bruited 
abroad,  it  was  joined  by  some  of  the  greater  princes. 
Urbino  rose  in  revolt;  Caesar's  own  troops  mutinied;  the 
King  of  France  was  slow  in  coming  to  his  help;  he 
seemed  on  the  verge  of  ruin.  Nevertheless  he  still  had 
resources,  and  his  enemies  were  dilatory.  The  opportunity 
was  let  slip,  and  presently  these,  his  allied  enemies,  entered 
into  negotiations  with  the  usurper.  He  overreached  them, 
contriving  to  set  them  at  variance  with  each  other ;  by  pro- 
found dissimulation  and  courteous  manners  converted  them 
to  a  more  or  less  favourable  attitude;  and  presently  made 
an  urgent  appointment  to  meet  his  foes  in  parley  at  the 
newly-conquered  town  of  Sinigaglia. 

Leonardo  had  quickly  become  a  prominent  personage  at 
Caesar's  court.  The  duke  employed  him  in  adorning  the 
various  towns  with  palaces,  libraries,  schools,  barracks,  and 
canals.  He  constructed  engines  of  war,  made  military  maps, 
and  was  present  at  all  Caesar's  bloodiest  exploits. 

Leonardo  did  not  wish  to  see  too  clearly,  or  to  know 
too  accurately,  what  was  taking  place  around  him.  He 
eschewed  politics.  He  confined  himself  almost  entirely  to 
observations  on  physical  and  social  phenomena  :  the  manner 
of  planting  orchards,  the  machinery  for  ringing  the  bells  at 
Siena  Cathedral,  the  low  music  of  the  falling  water  in  the 
fountain  of  Rimini,  the  dove-cot  in  the  Castle  of  Urbino. 
He  noted  how  the  shepherds  at  the  foot  of  the  Apennines 
placed  their  horns  in  the  narrow  openings  of  deep  hollows, 
so  that  echo  should  increase  the  volume  of  their  sound.  For 
whole  days  he  stood  on  the  desolate  shore  of  Piombino, 
watching  the  falling  of  the  waves ;  and  while  all  around  him 
the  laws  of  human  justice  were  being  broken,  mused  on 
X 


322  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  invariability  of  nature,  and  found  deep-seated  joy  in  the 
eternal  justice  of  the  Prime  Mover. 

On  a  day  in  June  the  corpses  of  the  young  Astorre  and  his 
brother  were  found  in  the  Tiber,  stones  tied  round  their 
necks.  The  crime  was  universally  attributed  to  Caesar.  But 
that  day  Leonardo  noted — 

■  In  Romagna  four-wheeled  carts  are  used,  the  front  wheels 
small,  the  back  large :  the  construction  is  faulty,  for  all  the 
weight  rests  on  the  front.' 


II 

In  the  latter  half  of  December  1502  the  Duke  of  Valen- 
tinois,  with  his  whole  court,  moved  from  Cesena  to  Fano,  on 
the  shores  of  the  Adriatic,  twenty  miles  from  Sinigaglia, 
where  the  meeting  was  appointed  with  his  former  enemies, 
Oliverotto  da  Fermo,  Vitellozzo  Vitelli,  and  Gian  Paolo 
Baglioni.  A  few  days  later  Leonardo  came  from  Pesaro  to 
join  his  patron. 

On  the  way  he  was  overtaken  by  a  storm.  The  mountains 
were  covered  with  impassable  snow-drifts,  the  mules  slipped 
on  the  ice ;  great  waves  were  heard  breaking  on  the  seashore 
at  the  foot  of  the  precipice.  As  darkness  came  on  the 
travellers  lost  the  path,  and,  dropping  the  reins,  they  trusted 
themselves  to  the  instinct  of  their  beasts.  The  mule 
Leonardo  was  riding  suddenly  stopped  and  grew  restive, 
scenting  the  corpse  of  a  man  who  had  been  hanged,  which 
still  dangled  from  the  branch  of  a  solitary  tree. 

At  last  they  saw  a  distant  light,  and  the  guide  recognised 
the  inn  at  Novilara,  a  mountain  town  half  way  between 
Pesaro  and  Fano.  The  travellers  quickened  their  steps,  and 
presently  were  knocking  at  the  massive  entrance  door, 
studded  with  nails  like  the  gate  of  a  fortress.  A  sleepy 
ostler  came  first ;  then  the  landlord,  who  declined  to  receive 
the  new  arrivals.  All  his  rooms,  all  his  stables  were  over- 
filled ;  there  was  not  a  bed  in  which  three  or  four  were  not 
sleeping — all  persons  of  quality,  soldiers  and  courtiers  of  the 
duke's  suite. 

Leonardo  told  his  name  and  exhibited  his  credentials, 
sealed  with  the  duke's  seal.  The  host  poured  forth  a  torrent 
of  apology,  and  made  offer  of  his  own  chamber,  which  at 


'AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        323 

present  contained  only  three  French  captains,  all  passably 
drunk  and  sound  asleep. 

Leonardo  entered  the  kitchen,  which  according  to  the 
wont  of  the  Romagna  inns  served  also  as  a  parlour.  It 
was  very  dirty,  with  patches  of  damp  on  the  bare  walls; 
guinea-fowl  were  sleeping  on  their  perches,  and  baby  porkers 
squeaking  round  the  door;  onions,  gherkins,  and  sausages 
were  suspended  from  the  ceiling.  A  whole  pig  was  roasting 
before  the  immense  glowing  fire.  Guests  crowded  at  long 
tables,  drinking  and  quarrelling  over  cards. 

Leonardo  sat  down  by  the  stove,  and  presently,  at  a 
square  board  close  by,  he  saw  Baldassarre  Scipioni,  an  old 
man,  formerly  captain  of  the  duke's  Lancers ;  Alessandro 
Spanocchia,  the  treasurer;  Pandolfo  Collenuccio,  legate  from 
Ferrara,  and  a  fourth  gentleman,  a  stranger,  who  was  gesticu- 
lating forcibly,  and  crying  in  a  thin  squeaky  voice  :— 

*  I  can  prove  this  also,  Messeri !  I  can  prove  this  by 
instances  from  ancient  and  from  modern  history !  Call  to 
mind  the  states  which  have  acquired  military  glory — Romans, 
Spartans,  Athenians,  ^tolians,  and  the  trans-Alpine  hordes. 
All  the  great  commanders  collected  their  armies  from  the 
citizens  of  their  own  country.  Ninus  from  the  Assyrians, 
Cyrus  from  the  Persians,  Alexander  from  the  Macedonians. 
I  grant  you  that  Pyrrhus  and  Hannibal  won  victories  by 
means  of  mercenaries,  but  these  were  generals  of  exceptional 
genius.  Nor  must  ye  forget  my  main  proposition — the  very 
corner-stone  of  military  science — viz.,  that  in  infantry,  and 
infantry  alone,  lies  the  strength  of  an  army.  Not  in  cavalry, 
not  in  fire-arms  and  powder,  ridiculous  toy  inventions  of 
modern  times.' 

cYou  go  too  far,  Messer  Niccolb,'  replied  the  captain  of 
lancers  with  a  smile ;  '  fire-arms  are  becoming  of  some 
importance.  Whatever  you  say  about  the  Romans  and  the 
Spartans,  I  venture  to  think  our  troops  are  much  better 
equipped.  A  squadron  of  our  French  soldiers,  or  a  battery 
of  thirty  bombards,  would  have  made  short  work  of  your 
ancient  Romans.' 

'Sophisms!  Sophisms!'  retorted  Messer  Niccolb  with 
increasing  excitement.  '  I  perceive  in  your  words  fearfully 
perilous  error !  Some  day  the  Italians  will  be  taught,  bv  a 
rude  lesson,  the  weakness  of  mercenary  armies,  and  the 
pitiful  powerlessness  of  cavalry  and  artillery.     Remember  how 


324 


THE  FORERUNNER 


the  handfuls  of  Lucullus  routed  150,000  horsemen,  among 
whom  were  cohorts  of  mounted  men  exactly  similar  to  the 
squadrons  of  the  present  French  cavalry ! ' 

Leonardo  looked  curiously  at  this  man  who  spoke  like  an 
eye-witness  of  the  victories  of  Lucullus.  The  stranger  wore 
a  long  garment  of  dark  red  cloth,  falling  in  straight  folds; 
it  resembled  that  worn  by  the  statesmen  of  the  Florentine 
Republic  and  the  secretaries  of  the  embassies.  It  was, 
however,  old  and  stained.  The  sleeves  were  threadbare, 
and  such  linen  as  was  to  be  seen  was  frayed  and  soiled. 
The  man  had  great  bony  hands,  copiously  dyed  with 
ink,  and  a  wart  on  one  finger.  There  was  little  dignity 
in  his  air ;  he  was  lean  and  narrow  shouldered,  about  forty 
years  of  age,  and  with  sharp  irregular  features.  Sometimes 
when  he  was  speaking  he  would  look  over  the  head  of  his 
interlocutor,  as  if  peering  into  space  like  some  long-sighted 
rapacious  bird.  In  his  restless  movements,  in  the  feverish 
flush  of  his  swarthy  cheeks,  above  all,  in  the  intentness  of 
his  large  grey  eyes,  there  was  evidence  of  smouldering  fire 
within.  The  eyes  themselves  were  malicious ;  yet  at  times,  in 
their  sardonic  smile,  in  their  cold  displeasure,  there  was  an 
expression  of  weakness  almost  pathetic. 

Messer  Niccolb  continued  to  pour  forth  his  notions ;  and 
Leonardo  marvelled  at  the  strange  mixture  of  truth  and 
error  in  his  talk,  at  his  audacity,  and  his  slavish  appeal 
to  the  authority  of  the  ancients.  He  approved  him  when 
he  spoke  of  the  scientific  difficulty  in  using  guns  of  large 
calibre,  owing  to  the  inaccuracy  of  their  range ;  but  the  next 
minute  he  asserted  that  fortresses  were  useless,  because  the 
Spartans  and  the  Romans  built  none.  He  appeared  to  regard 
the  opinions  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  much  as  Leonardo 
regarded  mathematical  axioms.  The  latter,  however,  did  not 
hear  the  conclusion  of  the  dispute,  as  the  landlord  called  him 
to  the  bedchamber  reserved  for  him  upstairs. 

Ill 

It  snowed  all  night,  and  in  the  morning  the  guide  refused 
to  continue  the  journey,  the  weather  being  in  his  opinion  not 
fit  even  for  a  dog  to  go  out  in.  Leonardo  was  forced  to 
remain  at  the  inn.  He  amused  himself  trying  a  self-turning 
roasting-spit  which  he  had  invented. 


'AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        325 

'With  this  mechanism,'  he  expounded  to  the  astonished 
onlookers,  *  the  cook  need  have  no  fear  of  burning  the  meat, 
for  the  action  of  the  fire  remains  even.  With  increase  of 
heat  it  turns  faster,  that  is  all.' 

It  would  seem  that  the  success  of  his  flying-machine  could 
hardly  have  afforded  him  greater  pleasure  than  the  perfection 
of  this  cooking  engine. 

In  the  same  room  Messer  Niccolb  was  explaining  to 
certain  young  artillery  sergeants  an  infallible  system,  based  on 
abstract  mathematics,  for  winning  at  dice — '  circumventing,' 
as  he  called  it,  'the  caprices  of  the  strumpet  Fortune.'  Every 
time  he  tried  to  give  a  practical  illustration  of  its  value,  he 
lost,  greatly  to  his  own  astonishment  and  to  the  amusement 
of  his  audience.  The  conclusion  of  the  game  was  unexpected 
and  not  entirely  to  Messer  Niccolb's  glory.  It  revealed  that 
his  pouch  was  empty,  and  that  he  could  not  meet  his 
losses. 

Late  that  evening  there  arrived  another  guest,  with  a  great 
array  of  servants,  pages,  grooms,  jesters,  negroes,  animals, 
boxes,  and  chests.  It  was  the  elecant  Venetian  courtesan, 
the  magnified  meretrice,  Lena  Griffi,  who  had  been  so 
nearly  despoiled  by  Savonarola's  '  youthful  inquisitors.' 
Two  years  ago,  following  the  example  of  many  of  her  sister- 
hood, the  repentant  Magdalen  had  cut  her  hair  and  shut 
herself  up  in  a  convent.  This  was,  however,  merely  an  artifice 
to  raise  her  price  in  the  city  tariff  of  courtesans,  drawn  up 
for  the  use  of  strangers.  From  the  monastic  chrysalis  she 
had  emerged  like  a  butterfly  awakened  to  a  new  and  more 
splendid  life.  Very  soon  the  mammola  veneziatia  had  risen 
to  great  celebrity,  and  had  fashioned  for  herself,  according 
to  the  usage  of  the  principal  courtesans,  a  fine  genealogical- 
tree,  by  which  it  appeared  that  she  was  the  daughter  of 
Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza,  brother  of  Ludovico,  Duke  of 
Milan.  She  became  the  mistress  of  an  old  and  doting 
cardinal,  whose  infirmities  were  palliated  by  his  wealth,  and 
was  now  journeying  to  Fano,  where  her  elderly  lover  was 
attached  to  Caesar  Borgia's  camp.  The  host  could  not  refuse 
admission  to  so  exalted  a  personage.  He  accommodated  her 
suite  by  turning  out  certain  Ancona  merchants  from  a  fair- 
sized  bedroom,  housing  them  in  the  forge,  and  promising 
them  a  reduction  in  their  bill.  Similar  treatment  he  pro- 
posed for  Messer  Niccold  and  his  room-mates,  the  French 


326  THE  FORERUNNER 

captains,   in    order    to    provide  a  chamber    for   the    lady 
herself. 

Messer  Niccolb,  however,  protested,  and  grew  very  angry, 
asking  the  landlord  if  he  had  lost  his  reason,  if  he  knew  with 
whom  he  was  speaking  ?  if  it  were  not  unheard-of  insolence 
to  insult  respectable  people  for  the  pleasing  of  the  first  jade 
tumbled  in  out  of  the  street?  Here  intervened  the  hostess, 
a  masterful  lady  who,  in  the  words  of  the  proverb,  had  not 
'pawned  her  tongue  to  a  Jew';  she  suggested  that  before 
making  so  much  noise  he  had  better  pay  the  bill  for  him- 
self, his  servant,  and  his  three  horses;  and  also  return  the 
four  ducats  lent  him  last  Friday  by  her  husband.  And  she 
added,  in  a  stage  whisper,  that  she  wished  a  bad  Easter  to 
all  the  adventurers  and  beggars  who  swarmed  on  the  high 
roads,  and,  pretending  to  be  great  ones,  lived  at  free  quarters 
and  mocked  at  honest  people.  No  doubt  there  was  some 
applicability  in  all  this,  for  Messer  Niccolb  was  reduced  to 
silence,  and  seemed  considering  how  he  could  retire  with  the 
best  grace  from  his  position.  Meantime  servants  were 
already  removing  his  goods,  and  Madonna  Lena's  monkey 
was  grimacing  at  him,  and  jumping  over  the  table  among  his 
papers  and  great  leather  books,  the  Decades  of  Livy  and 
Plutarch's  Lives. 

Leonardo  now  approached  and  said,  raising  his  berretto : — 

1  Messere,  if  it  would  please  you  to  share  my  room,  I  shall 
account  it  an  honour,  if  your  worship  will  permit  me  to  render 
so  slight  a  service.' 

Niccolb  seemed  astonished,  and  even  confused ;  recovering 
himself,  however,  he  accepted  the  offer  with  suitable  thanks. 
Leonardo  took  him  to  his  room,  and  assigned  him  the  best 
place.  The  more  he  looked  at  this  strange  man  the  more 
attractive  and  interesting  did  he  seem  to  him.  He  presently 
learned  his  name:  He  was  Machiavelli,  secretary  to  the 
Council  of  Ten  in  the  Florentine  Republic. 

Three  months  earlier  the  astute  and  vigilant  Signoria  had 
sent  Machiavelli  to  make  a  treaty  with  Csesar  Borgia.  The 
latter  had  proposed  a  defensive  alliance  against  their  common 
enemies,  Bentivoglio,  the  Vitelli,  and  the  Orsini ;  but  the 
Florentines,  fearing  the  duke  too  much  to  desire  either  his 
friendship  or  his  enmity,  had  commanded  their  envoy  to 
meet  his  propositions  merely  with  diplomatic  and  ambiguous 
expressions  of  goodwill,  and  secretly  to  obtain  free  passage 


«AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        327 

for  their  traders  through  the  duke's  territory  along  the  shores 
of  the  Adriatic,  a  matter  of  no  small  importance  to  their 
commerce. 

Leonardo  also  disclosed  his  name  and  rank ;  and  soon  he 
and  his  new  friend  were  conversing  with  that  ease  and  mutual 
confidence  occasionally  natural  to  persons  of  opposite 
character,  and  habitually  solitary  and  meditative. 

'Messere,'  burst  out  Niccolb,  and  his  candour  was  not 
unattractive,  {I  know  you  by  repute  as  a  great  painter;  but 
I  warn  you  I  have  no  knowledge  of  painting,  nor  am  I  even 
fond  of  it.  Of  course  you  may  respond,  a?  did  Dante  to  the 
street  mocker  who  offered  him  a  fig,  "I  wouldn't  change  one  of 
mine  for  twenty  of  yours  !  "  but  I  confess  I  am  more  interested 
in  having  learnt  from  the  duke  that  you  are  an  expert  in 
military  science.  How  important  that  is  !  Civil  greatness  is 
founded  upon  war,  and  depends  on  the  regular  army.  I  am 
writing  a  book  on  monarchies  and  republics,  wherein  I  shall 
discuss  the  natural  laws  which  govern  the  life,  growth,  decline, 
and  death  of  every  state,  just  like  a  mathematician  discuss- 
ing the  laws  of  number,  or  a  natural  philosopher  physics. 
Hitherto,  sir,  all  who  have  written  about  the  state ' 

Here  he  stopped,  and  chid  himself  with  a  good-humoured 
smile. 

1  Forgive  me,  Messere,  I  am  taking  a  mean  advantage.  It 
may  be  that  policy  interests  you  as  little  as  painting  interests 
me?' 

'Not  so/  said  Leonardo.  'I  tell  you  candidly  I  don't 
affect  statecraft,  because  such  talk  is  apt  to  be  idle.  But  your 
opinions  are  so  new  and  surprising,  that,  believe  me,  I  am 
thrice  happy  to  learn.' 

1  Beware,  Messer  Leonardo,'  said  the  other ;  *  these  matters 
are  my  hobby-horse.  I  will  go  without  bread,  if  I  may  but  talk 
upon  politics  with  a  man  of  understanding.  The  mischief  is, 
to  find  the  man  of  understanding !  Our  great  ones  think  of 
naught  but  the  price  of  wool  and  of  silk,  while  I '  (he  smiled 
bitterly)  '  am  made  of  neither.' 

Leonardo  reassured  him,  and  added,  in  order  to  keep  the 
conversation  going : — 

4  You  have  said,  Messere,  that  politics  should  be  an  exact 
science  founded  upon  mathematics,  like  mechanics,  which 
finds  its  certainty  in  the  observation  and  experience  of  nature. 
Did  I  understand  you  aright?' 


328  THE  FORERUNNER 

'  Perfectly ! '  cried  Machiavelli,  frowning,  and  looking  into 
space  beyond  his  companion's  head,  with  that  air  of  a  far- 
sighted  bird  habitual  to  him.  '  I  desire  to  reveal  a  new  thing 
to  men  about  human  affairs.  The  Laws  of  nature,  which  are 
outside  man's  will,  outside  good  and  evil,  are  the  laws  which 
guide  the  life  of  every  society.  All  former  writers  on  this 
subject  have  dealt  with  the  good  and  the  bad,  the  noble  and 
the  base.  I  do  not  concern  myself  with  governments  which 
ought  to  be,  nor  with  what  seems  to  be,  but  with  that  which 
really  is.  I  inquire  into  the  nature  of  the  great  bodies,  known 
as  republics  and  monarchies,  and  I  commit  myself  neither  to 
praise  nor  to  blame,  like  a  mathematician  or  an  anatomist. 
I  will  tell  men  the  truth,  even  if  they  burn  me  for  it,  as  they 
burned  Fra  Girolamo.     For  the  task  is  dangerous.' 

Leonardo  smiled,  observing  Machiavelli's  excitement,  and 
thought :  '  With  what  passion  he  praises  dispassionateness ! ' 

'Messer  Niccolo,'  he  said  aloud,  '  if  you  succeed  according 
to  your  intentions,  you  will  have  done  more  than  Euclid  or 
Archimedes.' 

Leonardo  was  struck  by  the  unconventionally  of  what  he 
had  heard.  He  remembered  how,  thirteen  years  earlier, 
he  had  himself  written  on  the  margin  of  certain  anatomical 
sketches : — 

'May  the  Most  High  assist  me  to  study  the  nature  of 
human  beings,  their  temperaments  and  habits,  even  as  here  I 
have  studied  their  internal  organs ! ' 

IV 

Suddenly  Machiavelli  exclaimed,  his  eyes  sparkling  merrily: 
1  The  more  I  listen  to  you,  Messer  Leonardo,  the  more  I  am 
astounded  that  we  should  have  met.  Some  most  rare  com- 
bination of  the  stars !  The  minds  of  men  are,  I  protest,  of 
three  qualities.  First,  those  who  see  of  themselves ;  secondly, 
those  who  see  when  they  are  shown  j  thirdly,  those  who  see 
not  of  themselves,  neither  see  when  they  are  shown.  Your 
worship,  and  I  myself  (for  I  would  not  be  guilty  of  false 
modesty)  belong  to  the  first  category.  But  you  laugh  ?  Ah ! 
such  a  meeting  will  not  easily  come  to  me  again  on  this  side 
the  grave,  for  on  earth  the  elect  are  few.  Permit  me  to  read 
you  a  most  beautiful  piece  of  Livy.' 

He  took  a  book  from  the  table,  adjusted  the  tallow  candle, 


«AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        329 

put  on  iron  spectacles  (broken  and  tied  up  with  string),  the 
large  round  glasses  of  which  gave  him  a  grave  and  devout 
expression,  as  if  he  were  addressing  himself  to  some  act  of 
worship.  But  no  sooner  had  he  found  his  passage,  and 
opened  his  lips,  than  the  door  opened,  and  a  little  wrinkled 
old  woman  came  in,  curtseying  and  bowing. 

'  I  crave  your  pardon,  gentlemen,  for  this  annoyance,'  she 
mumbled,  '  but  my  illustrious  lady,  Madonna  Lena  Grim,  has 
lost  her  favourite  animal — a  rabbit  with  a  blue  ribbon  round 
its  neck.     We  have  searched  two  hours  for  it,  but  vainly.' 

'There  are  no  rabbits  here,'  said  Messer  Niccolo,  angrily; 
{go  to  the  devil!'  And  he  was  about  to  eject  her,  but 
suddenly  checked  himself,  and  having  looked  at  her  narrowly, 
both  with  and  without  his  spectacles,  he  cried  : — 

*  Monna  Alvigia !  Is  it  really  you,  you  old  witch  ?  I 
thought  the  devil  had  long  ago  roasted  your  old  carcase ! ' 

The  woman  blinked  and  cowered,  answering  his  polite 
greeting  with  a  sorry  smile. 

*  Oh,  Messer  Niccolo !  how  many  years,  how  many  winters 
since  we  have  seen  each  other !  I  had  never  expected  God 
would  give  us  this  pleasure  again  ! ' 

Machiavelli  invited  the  old  woman  to  follow  him  to  the 
kitchen  for  a  crack ;  but  Leonardo,  providing  himself  with  a 
book  and  seating  himself  in  a  corner,  begged  them  to  remain. 
Then  Messer  Niccolo  sent  for  wine  with  a  lordly  air,  as  if  he 
were  the  most  honoured  guest  in  the  inn. 

■  Hark  ye,  friend,'  he  said  to  the  servant  who  took  his 
order,  'bid  that  skinflint,  your  master,  beware  how  he  serve 
us  that  acid  stuff  we  had  yesterday,  for  Monna  Alvigia  and 
I  are  like  Arlotto  the  priest,  who  would  not  kneel  if  the  wine 
were  bad.' 

Monna  Alvigia  forgot  her  rabbit  and  Niccolo  his  Livy ;  over 
their  pitcher  of  wine  they  gossiped  like  old  friends.  Alvigia 
told  tales  of  her  youth  when  she  had  been  fair  to  see  and 
much  courted,  and  she  had  done  what  she  wished  and  it  had 
not  mattered  what  she  did.  Had  she  not  once  in  Padua  lifted 
the  mitre  from  the  head  of  the  bishop  and  placed  it  upon  her 
own  ?  But  years  passed  by,  and  her  beauty  faded,  and  her 
lovers  abandoned  her,  and  she  had  to  support  herself  by 
hiring  rooms  and  by  taking  in  washing.  Then  she  fell  ill,  and 
she  thought  of  sitting  among  the  beggars  at  the  church  door, 
and  even  of  ending  herself  by  poison.     But  the  Holy  Virgin 


33o  THE  FORERUNNER 

came  to  her  aid  and  rescued  her  from  death.  With  the  aid  of 
an  old  abbot,  who  was  in  love  with  the  young  wife  of  a  black- 
smith, she  entered  upon  a  trade  far  more  profitable  than  that 
of  a  laundress. 

The  story  was  interrupted  by  a  summons  from  Madonna 
Lena,  who  required  pomade  for  her  monkey's  wounded  paw, 
and  Boccaccio's  Decameron,  which  she  always  kept  under  her 
pillow  beside  her  prayer-book. 

The  old  woman  gone,  Messer  Niccolo  mended  a  pen, 
took  paper,  and  began  his  report  to  the  Magnificent  Signori 
of  Florence,  on  the  dispositions  and  actions  of  the  Duke 
of  Valentinois,  a  piece  of  profound  statesmanship,  written  in 
easy,  almost  jocular  style. 

'Messere,'  he  exclaimed,  raising  his  eyes  to  Leonardo,  'con- 
fess I  surprised  you  by  my  sudden  passage  from  discussion  of 
the  virtue  of  ancient  Sparta  to  vain  gossip  about  women  with 
that  old  hag  !  Judge  me  not  too  harshly !  We  must  imitate 
nature.  Are  we  not  men?  Is  it  not  legended  that  Aristotle, 
in  the  very  presence  of  Alexander  his  pupil,  permitted  the 
leman  whom  he  loved  to  ride  on  his  back  while  he  caracoled 
on  all  fours?     Shall  simple  sinners  be  more  discreet? ' 

By  this  time  the  household  slept.  All  was  silent  save  for 
the  chirp  of  the  cricket,  the  muttering  of  Monna  Alvigia,  and 
and  the  growling  of  the  monkey  as  she  anointed  its  paw. 
Leonardo  had  gone  to  bed,  but  lay  watching  his  quaint 
companion,  who  still  gnawed  his  pen  and  stooped  over  his 
writing.  The  candle  flame  threw  on  the  wall  a  vast  shadow 
of  his  head  with  its  sharp-cut  angles,  its  protruding  lower  lip, 
its  thin  neck  and  long  beak-like  nose.  Having  finished  his 
report  he  sealed  it  up,  and  wrote  the  words  usual  on 
despatches :  •  Ctto,  citissime,  celerrime.1  Then  he  opened  his 
Livy  and  pursued  his  occupation  of  many  years,  the  compil- 
ing of  notes  for  the  Decades. 

The  shadow  on  the  wall  danced  and  wavered  and  grimaced 
as  the  candle  flickered  and  burned  low ;  but  the  face  of  the 
Florentine  secretary  preserved  its  stern  and  dignified  calm ; 
the  reflection  of  the  greatness  of  ancient  Rome.  Only  in  the 
depth  of  his  eyes,  in  the  corners  of  his  lips  there  showed 
sometimes  a  two-faced  cunning,  a  mocking  cynicism. 


•AUT  CAESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        331 


Next  day  the  storm  was  over.  The  sun  sparkled  on  the 
frozen  windows;  the  snowy  fields  and  hills,  soft  as  down, 
shone  dazzlingly  white  under  the  azure  sky.  His  companion 
was  no  longer  in  the  room  when  Leonardo  awoke.  He 
dressed  and  descended  to  the  kitchen  where,  to  the  joy  of 
the  cook,  a  joint  was  roasting  on  the  automatic  spit. 

He  ordered  his  mule  and  sat  down  to  breakfast.  Beside 
him  was  Messer  Niccolo  talking  excitedly  to  a  couple  of  new- 
comers. One  of  these  was  a  faultlessly  fashionable  youth 
with  an  undistinguished  face,  a  certain  Messer  Lucio, 
related  to  Francesco  Vettori.  This  Vettori  was  a  man  of 
note  in  Florence,  intimately  connected  with  Piero  Soderini 
the  Gonfaloniere,  and  very  favourably  disposed  to  Machia- 
velli.  He  had  sent  Lucio  with  letters  to  Messer  Niccolo 
from  his  friends. 

'Be  not  disquieted  about  the  money,' Lucio  was  saying; 
'my  uncle  assures  me  that  last  Thursday  the  Signori  pro- 
mised  ' 

'But,  my  dear  sir,'  interrupted  Machiavelli,  'can  two 
servants  and  three  horses  be  fed  with  promises  ?  At  Imola  I 
received  sixty  ducats  and  paid  debts  of  seventy.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  compassion  of  the  benevolent,  the  secretary  of  the 
Florentine  Republic  would  starve.  It  is  vain  for  the  Signori 
to  talk  of  the  honour  of  their  town  if  they  force  the  man  whom 
they  send  to  a  strange  court  to  beg  for  his  sheer  necessities/ 

Messer  Niccolo  knew  these  complaints  were  useless,  but  it 
solaced  him  to  make  them.  The  kitchen  being  nearly  empty, 
he  spoke  without  reserve. 

'  Here  is  our  fellow-citizen,  Messer  Leonardo  da  Vinci — 
the  Gonfaloniere  must  know  him,'  resumed  Machiavelli, 
indicating  the  painter,  to  whom  Lucio  bowed  courteously. 
'Messer  Leonardo  was  witness  only  last  night  of  the 
humiliations  to  which  I  am  daily  subjected.  I  demand — 
hear  you  ? — I  do  not  ask,  but  I  demand  leave  to  resign  my 
office,'  he  concluded,  his  anger  still  waxing,  and  addressing  the 
young  Florentine  as  if  he  saw  in  him  the  whole  Magnificent 
Signoria.  '  I  am  a  poor  man,  sir,  and  my  affairs  go  from  bad 
to  worse,  and  my  health  likewise.  If  matters  continue  as  they 
are  I  shall  return  home  in  my  coffin.  Moreover  I  have  done 
all  which  is  possible  to  do,  with  the  poor  powers  accorded  me. 


332  THE  FORERUNNER 

To  drag  out  the  negotiation,  to  go  around  and  about,  one  step 
forward  and  two  steps  back,  "  I  will  "  and  "  I  won't  " — that  is 
not  work  for  me  !  The  duke  is  too  clever  for  such  childish- 
ness !     Well,  I  have  written  to  your  uncle ' 

1  My  uncle/  interrupted  Lucio,  '  will  doubtless  do  all  he 
can  for  you,  Messer  Niccolb ;  but  the  Magnificent  Ten,  to 
tell  truth,  consider  your  reports  so  essential  to  the  weal  of 
the  republic  that  they  will  not  permit  you  to  retire.  "  Who 
is  there,"  they  say,  "  able  to  take  his  place?  He  is  a  man  of 
gold ;  he  is  the  ear  and  the  eye  of  our  commonwealth  ! "  I 
swear  to  you,  Messere,  that  your  letters  have  so  great  a  success 
in  Florence  that  you  could  not  desire  a  greater.  All  are 
bewitched  by  the  incomparable  felicity  of  your  style.  My 
uncle  informed  me  that  at  a  late  meeting  in  the  council 
chamber,  upon  the  reading  of  one  of  your  merry  letters,  the 
Signori  burst  themselves  with  laughter ' 

1  Oh,  that 's  it,  is  it  ? '  exclaimed  Machiavelli,  his  face  con- 
torted with  rage.  '  Ah,  now  I  understand !  My  letters  are 
amusing  to  the  Magnificent  Signori ;  they  burst  themselves 
with  laughter,  and  they  admire  my  diction.  Thank  God, 
Niccolo  Machiavelli  is  capable  of  something !  Yet  I  live 
here  like  a  dog,  I  freeze  and  go  hungry,  I  shake  with  fever, 
and  am  insulted  by  landlords,  all  for  the  good  of  the 
republic.  The  devil  take  the  republic,  and  the  Gonfalo- 
niere  too,  snivelling  old  woman !  May  you  all  be  buried 
unshriven  and  uncoffined!'  And  he  burst  into  the  vulgar 
vituperation  of  the  market-place,  helplessly  furious  at  the 
thought  of  these  chiefs  of  the  people,  so  utterly  despicable,  and 
yet  his  masters.  To  divert  his  thoughts  Lucio  handed  him  a 
letter  from  his  young  wife,  Marietta ;  a  few  lines  written  in  a 
round  childish  hand  on  coarse  grey  paper. 

1  Carissimo  Niccoto  mioj  so  she  wrote, '  I  am  told  that  in  those 
parts,  where  you  are  now,  fevers  and  other  sicknesses  abound. 
You  may  fancy  my  care  for  you.  My  thoughts  give  me  no 
peace  day  nor  night.  The  boy,  thank  God,  is  well.  He 
grows  apace,  and  is  like  you.  His  little  face  is  white  as  the 
snowdrift,  but  his  head,  with  its  thick  black  curls,  is  like 
yours.  He  seems  beautiful  to  me  because  he  is  like  you. 
He  is  lively  and  merry  as  though  he  were  a  year  old.  Believe 
me,  directly  he  was  born  he  opened  his  eyes  and  he  shouted 
with  a  voice  which  filled  the  house.  I  pray  you,  forget  us  not. 
I  entreat,  return  to  us  at  the  earliest  moment,  for  to  wait 


CAUT  CvESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        333 

longer  passeth  my  endurance.  And,  meanwhile,  may  the 
Lord  protect  you,  and  the  blessed  Virgin  !  I  send  vou  two 
shirts  and  two  handkerchiefs  and  a  towel.     Your, 

Marietta  in  Florence. 

Leonardo  observed  that  Machiavelli  reading  this  letter 
seemed  another  man.  His  face  lit  up  with  a  tender  smile 
not  to  be  expected  on  his  harsh  features.  The  smile,  however, 
quickly  disappeared.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  crumpled 
the  letter  and  stuffed  it  into  his  pouch,  then  said  savagely — 

'Who  told  her  I  was  ill?' 

'Messer  Niccolb,'  replied  Lucio,  *  every  day  Monna 
Marietta  has  been  to  the  members  of  the  council  asking  for 
you,  and  inquiring  where  you  are  and  how  you  fare.' 

*  I  know  !  I  know  !  Twas  like  to  be  so.  Affairs  of  state 
should  be  reserved  for  celibates.  One  of  the  two — politics  or 
a  wife — not  both.'  Then  he  turned  abruptly  and  said,  'And 
you  yourself,  good  youth;  you  are  perhaps  thinking  of 
wedding?' 

'  Not  at  present,  Messer  Niccolb,'  replied  Lucio. 

'Never  commit  that  folly;  unless  you  have  the  shoulders  of 
Atlas.     Eh!  Messer  Leonardo?' 

The  painter  understood  that  Messer  Niccolb  loved  Marietta 
passionately,  but  was  ashamed  to  admit  the  fact. 

The  inn  was  now  emptying  fast ;  Leonardo  prepared  for  his 
start  and  invited  Machiavelli  to  ride  with  him.  But  Messer 
Niccolb  shook  his  head,  saying  he  must  wait  for  money  from 
Florence  before  he  could  pay  his  bill.  He  spoke  sadly,  his 
assumed  levity  having  suddenly  collapsed.  He  looked  ill  and 
wretched.  Inaction,  long  stay  in  one  place  was  misery  to  him. 
Not  without  cause  had  the  Council  of  Ten  complained  of  his 
frequent,  causeless,  and  unexpected  removals,  which  were  great 
embarrassment  to  their  affairs. 

Leonardo  took  him  aside  and  offered  to  lend  the  requisite 
money.     Machiavelli  declined. 

'You  hurt  me,  my  friend,'  said  the  painter;  'remember 
this  rare  conjunction  of  the  stars !  You  would  confer  a  benefit 
upon  me.' 

There  was  so  much  kindness  in  Leonardo's  voice  that 
Messer  Niccolb  had  not  the  courage  to  persist  in  his  refusal. 
He  took  twenty  ducats  which  he  promised  to  return  on  receipt 
of  his  monev  from  Florence;  then  immediately  paid  his  score, 
with  the  lavishness  of  a  great  noble. 


334  THE  FORERUNNER 

VI 

They  started.  The  morning  was  calm  and  exquisite  ;  the 
air,  still  freezing  in  the  shade,  was  in  the  sunshine  almost 
spring-like  in  its  warmth.  The  deep  blue-shadowed  snow 
crackled  under  the  feet  of  the  beasts.  Between  the  white  hills 
shone  the  pale  green  of  the  winter  sea,  and  yellow  lateen  sails 
glanced  here  and  there  like  poised  butterflies. 

Niccolo  talked,  jested,  and  laughed.  Every  trifle  excited 
him  to  some  amusing  or  cynical  reflection. 

Passing  a  fishing  village  the  travellers  saw  a  group  of  fat 
and  jolly  friars  on  the  church  steps  selling  rosaries  to  the 
women,  whose  husbands  and  brothers  stood  aloof  staring 
stupidly. 

*  Fools  ! '  shouted  Messer  Niccolo,  '  know  you  not  that  fat 
easily  goes  aflame;  and  that  holy  fathers  like  pretty  women 
not  only  to  call  them  fathers  but  to  make  them  so  ? ' 

Leonardo  asked  him  what  he  had  thought  of  Savonarola. 
Niccolo  replied  that  at  one  time  he  had  been  Fra  Girolamo's 
zealous  partisan,  hoping  to  find  him  the  saviour  of  his 
country ;  but  too  soon  he  had  begun  to  see  the  weakness  of 
the  prophet. 

'The  whole  splenetic  gang  became  nauseous  to  me,'  he 
mused.  c  I  detest  even  to  think  of  it  The  devil  take  them  1 ' 
he  added  energetically. 

VII 

About  noon  they  rode  in  at  the  gates  of  Fano.  The  houses 
were  alive  with  Caesar's  courtiers,  captains,  and  troopers. 
Two  rooms  in  the  best  situation  had  been  assigned  to  the 
ducal  engineer;  he  offered  one  of  them  to  his  travelling 
companion,  who  in  such  a  crowd  might  have  had  difficulty  in 
procuring  a  lodging. 

Machiavelli  presented  himself  at  once  at  the  palace,  and 
when  he  returned  he  brought  important  news. 

Don  Ramiro  de  Lorqua,  who  had  been  governing  in  the 
duke's  name,  had  been  executed.  On  Christmas  day  the 
people  had  found  the  headless  corpse  wallowing  on  the  ground 
in  a  pool  of  blood,  an  axe  beside  it,  the  ghastly  head  stuck 
on  a  spear. 

'The  cause   of  the  execution  is  unknown,'  said  Messer 


CAUT  CMLSAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503       335 

Niccolb,  '  but  *tis  the  talk  of  the  whole  town.  Let  us  go  to- 
gether and  listen  to  the  conjectures  of  the  rabble.  Tis 
an  opportunity  to  study  the  natural  laws  of  politics/ 

Before  the  old  cathedral  of  San  Fortunato  a  crowd  was 
expecting  the  coming  forth  of  the  duke,  who  was  about  to 
review  his  troops.  Leonardo  and  Machiavelli  joined  the 
throng  in  which  but  one  subject  was  being  discussed. 

' 1  can  make  nothing  of  it,'  said  a  young  workman  with  a 
dull,  good-natured  face.  '  I  thought  Don  Ramiro  had  been 
loved  and  enriched  above  all  the  court.' 

•  The  very  reason  of  his  chastisement,'  replied  a  respectable 
shopkeeper,  dressed  in  a  squirrel  pelisse ;  '  Don  Ramiro  has 
been  deceiving  our  duke.  He  has  oppressed,  imprisoned, 
plundered  the  people.  Before  his  lord  he  wore  sheep's 
clothing;  he  fancied  things  hid  were  not  things  forbid.  But 
his  hour  came;  the  sovereign's  patience  was  exhausted,  and 
for  the  good  of  the  people  he  did  not  spare  his  friend ;  he 
cut  off  his  head  without  trial,  without  hesitation,  without 
delay,  as  a  warning  to  others.  Now  they  see  how  terrible  is 
the  duke's  wrath,  how  impartial  his  justice.  He  puts  down 
the  mighty  from  their  seats  and  exalteth  them  of  low 
degree.' 

•  Reges  tos  in  virga  ferrea?  declaimed  a  monk.  'Thou 
rulest  them  with  a  rod  of  iron.' 

'Ay,  ay!  They  need  an  iron  rod,  the  sons  of  dogs,  the 
oppressors  of  the  people  ! ' 

'  He  knows  when  to  pardon,  and  when  to  strike.' 

'  We  want  no  better  sovereign.' 

'Truly,'  said  a  peasant,  'the  Lord  has  at  last  had  pity  on 
Romagna.  Before,  there  was  flaying  both  of  the  living  and 
of  the  dead  and  the  taxes  were  our  starvation.  The  last 
pair  of  oxen  in  our  stalls  had  to  go !  But  since  the  Duke 
Valentino  came  we  have  been  able  to  breathe.  May  the 
Lord  keep  him  in  health  ! ' 

'And  the  judges!'  said  the  shopkeeper;  'their  delay 
used  to  eat  one's  very  heart !     'Tis  different  now.' 

'He  has  protected  the  orphan  and  consoled  the  widow,' 
put  in  the  monk. 

'  He  is  merciful.  'Tis  not  to  be  denied  he  is  merciful  to 
the  people.' 

'  He  gives  offence  to  none.' 

•  O  Santo  Iddio ! '  murmured  a  feeble  old  woman,  beside 


336  THE  FORERUNNER 

herself  with  admiration ;  '  may  the  Blessed  Virgin  preserve  to 
us  our  father,  our  benefactor,  our  bright  sun !' 

'  Do  you  hear  them  ? '  whispered  Machiavelli.  *  Voxpopuli 
vox  del.  I  have  always  said  one  must  be  in  the  plains  to  see 
the  mountains;  one  must  be  among  the  people  to  know  the 
sovereign.  I  'd  like  to  get  them  here,  those  folk  who  call 
the  duke  a  tyrant !  These  things  are  hid  from  the  wise  and 
prudent,  but  revealed  unto  the  simple.' 

Martial  music  was  heard  and  the  crowd  was  astir. 

*  He  comes !     Look ! ' 

They  stood  on  tiptoe  and  craned  their  necks,  curious  heads 
■were  thrust  from  windows,  women  and  girls,  their  eyes  full  of 
love,  ran  out  on  the  balconies  and  loggie  to  see  their  hero, 
Ccsare  bcllo  e  Hondo — 'Caesar,  the  blond  and  beautiful.'  It 
was  rare  good  luck,  for  he  hardly  ever  showed  himself  to  the 
people. 

The  musicians  walked  first,  making  a  deafening  clatter  of 
kettledrums  in  time  with  the  heavy  tread  of  the  soldiers. 
Next  came  the  duke's  Romagnole  guard,  all  picked  and 
handsome  men,  carrying  halberts  three  cubits  long.  They 
wore  cuirasses,  and  helmets  of  steel,  and  their  garments  were 
parti-coloured,  the  right  side  yellow,  the  left  red.  Niccolo 
could  not  admire  enough  this  truly  Roman  array.  After 
the  guard  came  equerries  and  pages,  in  clothes  of  unsur- 
passed splendour;  camisoles  of  gold  brocade,  mantles  of 
pounce  velvet  with  gold-embroidered  slashings,  their  scab- 
bards and  belts  of  snakes'  scales,  with  knobs  representing  the 
seven  heads  of  the  viper  vomiting  poison — the  cognisance  of 
the  Borgias.  Embroidered  on  their  breasts  was  the  word, 
■  Caesar.'  They  were  followed  by  the  bodyguard,  Albanian 
stradiotes,  with  curved  yataghans.  Then  BartolomeoCapranica, 
the  Maestro  del  Campo,  carried  the  naked  sword  of  the 
Gonfaloniere  of  the  Roman  Church.  After  him  came  the 
ruler  of  Romagna  himself,  Caesar  Borgia,  Duke  of  Valentinois. 
He  was  mounted  on  a  black  Barbary  stallion,  with  a  diamond 
sun  on  its  headband :  he  wore  a  pale  blue  silk  mantle  with 
the  white  lilies  of  France  embroidered  in  pearls,  and  a  corselet 
wrought  into  the  gn ping  mouth  of  a  lion.  His  helmet  was 
a  dragon,  with  scales,  wings,  and  fins  of  wrought  brass, 
resounding  at  every  movement. 

At  this  time  Caesar  Borgia  was  six  and  twenty;  his  face 
had  grown  thin  and  worn  since  Leonardo  had  seen  him  at 


AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503       337 

Louis  xn.'s  court  at  Milan.  His  features  were  sharper,  and 
his  eyes,  with  their  glow  like  polished  steel,  were  graver  and 
more  impenetrable.  His  hair  and  pointed  beard  had  darkened ; 
his  long  nose  seemed  more  aquiline.  Complete  serenity  still 
reigned  upon  his  impassive  face ;  only  now  there  was  a 
look  of  still  more  strenuous  daring,  of  terrifying  keenness, 
like  the  edge  of  a  bared  and  sharpened  sword. 

The  duke  was  followed  by  his  artillery,  the  best  in  Italy. 
Brass  culverins,  falconets,  iron  mortars  firing  stones — drawn 
by  oxen,  their  heavy  chariots  rolling  along  with  a  dull  roar 
and  mixing  with  the  voices  of  the  trumpets  and  kettledrums. 
In  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun,  cannon,  cuirasses,  helmets, 
spears,  flashed  lightning ;  Caesar  was  riding  in  the  imperial 
purple  of  a  conqueror,  straight  towards  the  immense  blood-red 
sun. 

The  crowd  gazed  at  the  hero  in  silence,  holding  its  breath, 
wishing,  yet  fearing,  to  greet  him  with  applause,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  admiration  akin  to  terror.  Tears  flowed  down  the  cheeks 
of  the  old  beggar  woman,  and  she  murmured  : — 

1  Holy  saints  !  Holy  mother !  The  Lord  has  permitted 
me  to  see  his  face  !     O,  our  beauteous  sun  ! ' 

The  flashing  sword  entrusted  to  Caesar  by  the  pope  was  the 
fiery  glaive  of  the  archangel  Michael  himself. 

Leonardo  smiled,  seeing  on  Machiavelli's  face  the  very 
same  look  of  artless  enthusiasm. 


VIII 

On  reaching  home  Leonardo  found  a  letter  from  Messer 
Agapito,  bidding  him  wait  on  his  Excellency  the  next  day. 
A  little  later,  Lucio,  who  was  passing  through  Fano  on  his 
way  to  Ancona,  came  in  for  a  visit,  and  Machiavelli  spoke  to 
him  of  the  execution  of  Don  Ramiro  de  Lorqua. 

'  To  divine  the  real  reasons  for  the  actions  of  a  ruler  like 
Caesar  Borgia,  is  almost  impossible,'  he  said,  '  but  as  you  ask 
me  what  I  think  of  this  deed,  I  will  tell  you.  Till  its  con- 
quest by  the  duke,  Romagna  was  under  the  yoke  of  a  number 
of  petty  tyrants,  and  full  of  disorder,  plundering  and  violence. 
To  end  this  state  of  turbulence  Caesar  appointed  his  astute 
and  faithful  servant,  Don  Ramiro,  as  his  lieutenant.  This 
man  accomplished  his  task;  he  inspired  the  people  with  a 
Y 


338  THE  FORERUNNER 

salutary  terror,  and  established  perfect  tranquillity  through 
out  the  country,  but  he  did  it  by  a  long  series  of  cruel 
punishments.  When  the  prince  saw  that  his  object  was 
gained  he  determined  to  destroy  the  instrument  of  his 
severity  Don  Ramiro  has  been  seized,  on  the  ground  of 
extortion,  and  executed;  his  dead  body  lies  exposed  to 
public  view.  This  terrible  spectacle  has  at  once  gratified  and 
awed  the  people.  The  duke's  action  has  been  wise,  for  he 
has  reaped  three  clear  advantages.  First,  he  has  slain  the 
tyrants;  secondly,  by  condemning  Ramiro  he  has  disassoci- 
ated himself  from  his  lieutenant's  ferocity  and  so  has  gained 
a  character  for  gentleness ;  thirdly,  by  sacrificing  his  favourite 
servant  he  has  set  an  example  of  incorruptible  equity.' 

Machiavelli  spoke  in  a  low  dry  voice,  with  expressionless 
countenance,  as  if  stating  his  reasoning  on  some  theorem. 

'From  your  own  words,  Messer  Niccolo,'  cried  Lucio, 
'I  perceive  that  this  supposed  equity  is  the  excess  of 
villainy!' 

Sparks  of  fire  appeared  in  the  secretary's  eyes,  but  he  looked 
away  and  spoke  as  coldly  as  before. 

'It  may  be  so,'  he  assented,  'but  what  of  it?' 

'  What  of  it  ?  Would  you  approve  such  scoundrelly  state- 
craft?' 

'Young  man,  you  speak  with  the  inexperience  of  youth. 
In  politics,  the  difference  between  the  way  men  should  and 
the  way  they  do  act,  is  so  great,  that  to  forget  it  means  to 
expose  yourself  to  certain  ruin.  For  all  men  are  by  nature 
evil  and  vicious;  they  are  virtuous  only  for  advantage  or 
through  fear.  A  prince  who  would  avoid  ruin,  must  at  all 
hazards  learn  the  art  of  appearing  virtuous  ;  and  he  must  be 
or  not  be  virtuous  as  the  case  may  require.  He  must  dis- 
regard all  uneasiness  of  conscience  as  to  those  secret  measures 
without  which  the  preservation  of  power  in  impossible;  for 
upon  accurate  knowledge  of  the  nature  of  good  and  evil,  it  is 
clear  that  the  power  of  a  prince  will  often  be  undermined  by 
his  virtuous  actions  and  augmented  by  his  crimes.' 

Lucio  again  protested.  'Reasoning  thus,'  he  cried,  'any- 
thing would  be  permissible,  and  there  is  no  wickedness  which 
you  could  not  justify  ! ' 

'That  is  so,'  replied  Machiavelli  with  perfect  serenity,  and, 
as  if  insisting  upon  the  significance  of  his  words,  he  raised  his 
hand  and  added  solemnly:  'All  is  permissible  to  the  man 


«AUT  CAESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503       339 

who  knows  how  to  rule.'  Then  he  resumed  in  his  former  dry 
tone  of  ratiocination,  '  Therefore,  I  conclude  that  the  severity 
of  the  Duke  of  Valentinois,  who  has  put  an  end  to  pillage  and 
violence  throughout  Romagna,  has  been  more  rational  and 
no  less  merciful  than  the  leniency  of  our  Florentines,  who 
have  permitted  continued  revolts  and  have  fomented  disorder 
in  all  the  provinces  under  their  sway.  For  it  is  better  to 
strike  down  a  few  than  bring  a  whole  state  to  ruin  as  result 
of  its  licence.' 

'But,'  said  Lucio,  somewhat  overwhelmed,  'have  there 
been  no  rulers  that  were  strangers  to  this  cruelty?  Think  of 
Antoninus  and  Marcus  Aurelius.' 

'  Do  not  forget,  Messere,  that  I  am  discussing  the  govern- 
ment of  conquered,  not  of  hereditary  principalities;  and  the 
acquisition,  not  the  maintenance,  of  authority.  The  emperors 
you  have  named  could  afford  clemency,  because  in  the  pre- 
ceding years  there  had  been  sufficiency  of  bloody  deeds. 
The  founder  of  Rome  slew  his  brother — a  horrid  crime — but 
this  fratricide  was  necessary  to  the  establishment  of  a  sole 
authority,  without  which  Rome  would  have  perished  from  the 
weakness  consequent  on  domestic  strife.  Who  shall  be  able 
certainly  to  balance  a  single  fratricide  against  all  the  virtue 
and  wisdom  of  the  Eternal  City?  Doubtless  we  ought  to 
prefer  the  most  humble  fortune  to  greatness  founded  upon 
evil  deeds;  but  he  who  has  once  abandoned  the  path  of  abstract 
righteousness,  must,  if  he  would  not  perish,  walk  resolutely 
in  the  path  of  evil  and  follow  it  to  the  end :  for  men  revenge 
themselves  only  for  small  offences,  great  offences  depriving 
them  of  the  power  of  revenge.  Therefore,  a  prince  must 
inflict  only  serious  injuries  on  his  subjects,  and  must  refrain 
from  minor  injustices.  Yet  the  generality  persist  in  choos- 
ing the  middle  course  between  wrong  and  right,  which  is 
the  most  perilous.  They  recoil  from  crimes  which  demand 
great  courage,  and  commit  only  vulgar  baseness  which  profits 
them  not.' 

'  Your  words  make  my  hair  stand  on  end,  Messer  Niccolb,' 
said  Lucio,  much  shocked,  but  thinking  a  jest  the  most 
courteous  form  of  reply:  'You  may  speak  the  truth,  but  I 
shall  flatly  refuse  to  believe  these  your  real  opinions.' 

'Truths  always  seem  improbable,'  said  Machiavelli  dryly. 

Leonardo,  who  was  listening,  had  already  observed  that 
Messer  Niccolb,  while  pretending  indifference,  was  casting 


34o  THE  FORERUNNER 

sly  glances  at  Lucio  as  if  to  gauge  the  effect  his  words  were 
producing.  It  was  evident  that  Machiavelli  had  little  sdf- 
command,  was  not  possessed  of  calm  and  conquering  strength. 
Unwilling  to  think  like  other  men,  hating  the  commonplace, 
he  had  fallen  into  the  opposite  error,  into  exaggeration,  into 
the  affectation  of  views  rare  and  startling,  but  incomplete  and 
paradoxical.  He  played  with  such  words  as  virtue  and 
ferocity,  much  as  a  juggler  plays  with  naked  swords.  He  had 
a  whole  armoury  of  these  polished,  shining,  tempting  and 
dangerous  weapons,  ready  for  the  disabling  of  men  like 
Messer  Lucio ;  men  of  the  herd,  respectable,  sensible,  con 
ventional.  He  punished  them  for  their  triumphant  mediocrity, 
and  for  his  own  disregarded  superiority ;  he  cut  and  scratched 
them ;  but  did  not  kill  or  even  seriously  wound  them. 
Leonardo  remembered  the  monster  which  he  had  once 
painted  on  the  wooden  ■  rotello '  for  Ser  Piero  da  Vinci ;  an 
animal  put  together  from  the  different  parts  of  a  variety  of 
repulsive  reptiles.  Had  not  Messer  Niccolo  put  together  as 
useless  and  impossible  a  monstrosity  in  his  superhuminly 
astute  and  conscienceless  prince  ?  A  being  contrary  to  nature, 
fascinating  as  Medusa,  invented  for  the  terrifying  of  the 
vulgar?  Yet  under  this  wantonness  of  imagination,  this 
artistic  dispassionateness,  Leonardo  perceived  great  suffering 
in  the  soul  of  Messer  Niccolo,  as  if  a  juggler,  playing  with 
swords,  were  himself  cut  to  the  quick. 

1  Is  he  not  one  of  those  unhappy  sick  men,'  thought  the 
painter,  'who  seek  relief  from  pain  in  envenoming  their 
wounds  ? '  He  did  not  know  the  last  secret  of  this  dark  spirit, 
so  like,  and  yet  so  unlike,  his  own. 

Messer  Lucio,  like  a  man  in  a  nightmare,  was  struggling 
with  the  Medusa  head  evoked  by  Messer  Niccolb. 

'Well,  well!'  he  said,  'I  will  not  dispute  with  you. 
Severity  may  have  been  necessary  to  princes  in  the  past. 
We  can  pardon  them  a  good  deal  for  the  sake  of  their 
heroic  virtues  and  exploits.  But,  pardon  me,  what  has 
this  to  do  with  the  Duke  of  Romagna?  Quod  licet  Jovi 
non  licet  bovi.  What  is  permitted  to  Alexander  the  Great  or 
to  Julius  Caesar,  may  be  unpardonable  in  Alexander  the  pope 
or  in  Caesar  Borgia,  of  whom  we  cannot  yet  say  whether  he 
be  Caesar  or  nothing.  I  at  least  think,  and  all  will  agree 
with  me ' 

\  Oh,  of  course,  all  will  agree  with  you,'  interrupted  Niccolb, 


•AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        341 

out  of  patience,  *but  that  is  no  proof,  Messer  Lucio.  The 
truth  does  not  lie  on  the  high  road  where  all  men  pass.  But 
to  conclude  the  discussion,  here  is  my  last  word.  As  I 
observe  the  acts  of  Caesar,  I  find  them  perfect ;  and  I  would 
suggest  him  as  a  model  to  all  who  would  obtain  power  by 
force  of  arms  and  by  successful  adventure.  He  combines 
cruelty  so  well  with  virtue,  he  knows  so  accurately  when  to 
caress  and  when  to  crush,  the  foundations  of  his  power  are  so 
firmly  though  so  quickly  laid,  that  already  he  is  an  autocrat, 
the  only  one  in  Italy,  perhaps  the  only  one  in  Europe.  It  is 
hard  to  imagine  what  may  not  lie  before  him  in  the  future/ 
Machiavelli's  eyes  burned,  his  voice  shook,  and  red  spots 
glowed  on  his  sunken  cheeks ;  he  seemed  like  a  seer.  From 
the  mask  of  a  cynic  looked  out  the  face  of  the  former 
disciple  of  Savonarola,  the  fanatic. 

But  Lucio,  weary  of  the  discussion,  had  no  sooner  sug- 
gested sealing  a  truce  with  two  or  three  bottles  from  the 
neighbouring  cellar  than  the  visionary  disappeared. 

'  Nay,'  cried  Messer  Niccolo  eagerly, '  let  us  go  to  a  different 
tavern.  I  have  a  good  scent  in  such  matters,  I  know  where 
we  shall  find  handsome  women.' 

'What,  in  this  scurvy  little  town  ?'  said  Lucio. 

*  Listen,  my  lad,'  said  the  dignified  secretary  of  the 
Florentine  Republic,  'never  you  despise  these  same  small 
towns.  In  their  vile  alleys  you  can  sometimes  find  what  will 
make  you  lick  your  fingers  for  delight.' 

At  these  words  Lucio  slapped  Messer  Niccolo  on  the  back, 
and  called  him  a  sly  dog. 

'We  will  take  lanterns,'  continued  Niccolo,  'we  will  wear 
cloaks  and  vizards.  On  such  expeditions  mystery  is  half  the 
pleasure.     Messer  Leonardo,  you  accompany  us  ? ' 

The  artist  excused  himself. 

He  did  not  enjoy  the  customary  gross  talk  about  women, 
and  avoided  it  with  instinctive  repulsion.  This  man  of 
fifty,  the  intrepid  student  of  the  secrets  of  nature  who  could 
accompany  criminals  to  their  execution  that  he  might  see 
the  last  look  of  terror  in  their  eyes,  was  often  put  out  of 
countenance  by  a  jest,  did  not  know  which  way  to  look,  and 
blushed  like  a  schoolboy. 

Niccolo,  without  more  ado,  carried  off  Messer  Lucio. 


342  THE  FORERUNNER 

IX 

Early  next  day  a  chamberlain  came  to  inquire  whether  the 
ducal  engineer  were  satisfied  with  his  quarters,  and  to  bring 
him  a  present  from  Caesar.  According  to  the  hospitable 
custom  of  the  time  it  consisted  of  provisions,  a  sack  of  flour, 
a  cask  of  wine,  a  sheep,  a  dozen  fat  capons ;  and  also  two 
large  torches,  three  packets  of  wax  candles,  and  two  boxes  of 
confetti.  Impressed  by  these  compliments,  Machiavelli  begged 
Leonardo  to  say  a  word  for  him  to  the  duke,  and  obtain  him 
the  favour  of  an  interview.  At  eleven  in  the  evening,  Caesar's 
customary  reception-hour,  they  went  together  to  the  palace. 

The  duke's  manner  of  life  was  strange  enough.  Summer 
and  winter  he  went  to  bed  at  four  or  five  in  the  morning,  so 
that  for  him  it  was  dawn  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  sunrise 
at  four;  at  five  he  began  to  dress  and  to  dine  and  to 
conduct  his  business  affairs  all  simultaneously.  He  surrounded 
his  doings  with  mystery,  not  only  out  of  natural  secretive- 
ness,  but  by  studied  calculation  j  he  seldom  left  his  palace, 
and  always  masked.  Only  on  great  festivals  did  he  show 
himself  to  the  people,  and  to  the  troops  only  in  moments  of 
extreme  danger.  He  liked  to  astonish ;  his  appearances  were 
always  dramatic,  like  those  of  a  demi-god. 

Scarce  credible  reports  were  current  as  to  his  profuse- 
ness.  All  the  gold  continually  flowing  into  the  treasury 
of  St.  Peter's  did  not  suffice  for  the  expenditure  of  the 
Gonfaloniere  of  the  Church.  Envoys  reported  that  he  spent 
not  less  than  eighteen  hundred  ducats  daily;  and  that 
when  he  rode  through  the  streets  crowds  followed  him  to  pick 
up  the  easily  dropped  silver  shoes,  with  which  his  horses  were 
shod,  solely  as  largesse  to  the  people.  Wonders  were  told 
also  as  to  his  physical  strength.  He  could  bend  horse-shoes 
in  his  fingers  (thin  and  delicate  as  a  woman's),  twist  iron 
rods,  break  the  cables  of  ships.  At  a  bull-fight  in  Rome 
some  years  ago,  when  he  had  been  Cardinal  of  Valenza,  the 
youthful  Caesar  had  cut  a  bull  in  half  with  a  single  stroke  of 
his  sword.  Inaccessible  to  his  courtiers  and  to  the  ambassa- 
dors of  great  potentates,  he  was  often  to  be  seen  on  the  hills 
round  Cesena  watching  the  boxing  matches  of  the  wild 
Romagna  herdsmen,  and  sometimes  taking  part  in  the  sport. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  the  ideal  of  a  cavalier  and  the 
paragon  of  fashion.      On  the  day  of  his   sister   Lucrezia's 


•AUT  CAESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503       343 

marriage  with  Alfonso  d'Este,  he  left  the  siege  of  a  fortress 
and  rode  from  the  camp  to  the  wedding,  unrecognised,  and 
clad  in  black  velvet  with  a  black  mask.  He  passed  through 
the  crowd  of  guests,  bowed,  and  when  all  drew  back  in 
surprise,  danced  to  the  strains  of  the  music  with  such  grace 
that  at  once  the  cry  was  raised,  *  Cesare !  Cesare !  Eunico 
Cesare  ! ' 

Heeding  neither  guests  nor  bridegroom,  he  drew  Lucrezia 
aside  and  whispered  in  her  ear.  Her  eyes  fell,  she  flushed, 
then  grew  white,  to  the  enhancement  of  her  dainty  pearl-like 
beauty.  It  might  be  she  was  innocent ;  there  was  no  question 
that  she  was  frail;  report  added  submissive,  perhaps  even 
criminally  submissive,  to  the  terrible  will  of  this  her  brother. 

He,  it  seemed,  cared  for  one  point  only,  that  there  should  be 
no  proofs.  Fame  probably  exaggerated  his  sins ;  but  possibly 
the  reality  was  more  terrible  than  fame.  At  any  rate  he  knew 
how  to  conceal  his  actions,  and  to  wipe  out  every  trace  of 
them. 


The  old  Gothic  municipal  palace  of  Fano  served  as  the 
duke's  residence.  Leonardo  and  Machiavelli  crossed  the 
dreary  hall  where  less  important  visitors  were  received,  and 
entered  an  inner  apartment,  once  a  chapel.  There  was 
stained  glass  in  the  lancet  windows;  and  the  Apostles  and 
Fathers  of  the  Church  were  carved  in  oak  on  the  high  stalls 
of  the  choir.  On  the  ceiling  was  a  faded  fresco  of  the  Holy 
Dove  hovering  over  clouds  and  angels.  The  courtiers  were 
standing  and  talking  in  undertones,  for  the  near  presence  of 
the  sovereign  was  felt  even  through  the  walls.  The  ill-starred 
envoy  from  Rimini,  a  bald  and  feeble  old  man  who  had 
been  waiting  three  months  for  his  audience  of  the  duke, 
clearly  worn  out  by  many  sleepless  nights,  had  fallen  into  a 
doze.  Now  and  then  the  door  opened,  and  the  secretary 
Agapito,  with  an  anxious  air,  spectacles  on  nose  and  pen 
behind  his  ear,  looked  in,  and  summoned  to  his  Highness 
one  or  other  of  those  waiting.  Each  time,  the  bald  old 
man  from  Rimini  shuddered,  started  up,  saw  it  was  not  his 
turn,  sighed  heavily,  and  again  sank  into  his  doze.  His 
slumbers  were  soothed  by  the  sound  of  an  apothecary's  pestle 
beating  in  a  mortar ;  for,  a  suitable  room  being  lacking,  this 
chapel  was  used  not  only  as  the  ante-chamber  to  the  presence 


344  THE  FORERUNNER 

but  also  as  the  surgery.  Where  the  altar  had  stood  was  a 
table  crowded  with  the  bottles,  gallipots,  and  retorts  of  a 
physician's  laboratory,  and  behind  it  Gaspare  Torella,  the 
bishop  of  Santa  Giusta,and  the  chief  physician  to  the  Duke  of 
Valentinois,  was  preparing  a  fashionable  medicine,  a  decoction 
of  tguaiacoi>  or,  as  it  was  commonly  called,  *  Holy  tree,' 
brought  from  the  new  islands  discovered  by  Columbus.  The 
bishop-doctor,  while  he  rubbed  the  yellow  lumps  in  his  shapely 
hands,  was  discoursing  on  the  nature  of  this  healing  tree;  and 
the  oaken  saints  on  the  stalls  seemed  listening  in  amazement 
to  the  strange  talk  of  these  new  shepherds  of  the  Lord's  flock. 
The  chapel  was  lighted  only  by  the  physician's  blinking  lamp ; 
the  air  was  choked  by  the  pungent  smell  of  the  medicine, 
mingled  with  faint  perfume  of  the  incense  of  earlier  years; 
one  might  have  fancied  this  an  assembly  of  prelates  engaged 
in  the  performance  of  some  strnnge  mystic  rite.  Meantime 
the  Florentine  secretary  was  taking  now  one,  now  another  of 
the  courtiers  aside,  and  adroitly  questioning  them  as  to 
Caesar's  policy.  Presently  he  approached  Leonardo  and 
whispered  to  him  very  mysteriously. 

1  I  shall  eat  the  artichoke ;  I  shall  eat  the  artichoke ! ' 

'  What  artichoke  ? '  asked  the  painter,  bewildered. 

*  Precisely ;  what  artichoke  ?  It  seems  the  duke  propounded 
a  riddle  to  Messer  Pandolfo  Collenuccio,  the  Ambassador 
from  Ferrara.  He  said,  "I  shall  eat  the  artichoke,  leaf  by 
leaf."  It  may  signify  the  league  of  his  enemies  whom  he 
means  to  separate,  and  so  destroy  one  by  one.  I  have 
puzzled  my  brains  over  it  for  an  hour.'  Speaking  still  lower, 
he  continued,  1  Here  all  is  riddle  and  trap.  They  chatter 
about  every  kind  of  nonsense,  but  directly  you  speak 
of  affairs  they  become  dumb  as  monks  at  dinner.  But 
they  shall  not  deceive  me ;  I  know  very  well  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  air.  I'  faith,  sir,  I  would  sell  my  soul  to  know 
what.' 

And  his  eyes  glowed  like  a  desperate  gamester's.  Before 
Leonardo  could  reply,  he  was  summoned  by  Messer  Agapito. 
Through  a  long  gloomy  passage  guarded  by  the  Stradiotes, 
Leonardo  arrived  at  the  duke's  bedchamber,  a  spacious  room 
hung  with  tapestry  and  silk.  On  the  ceiling  were  painted  the 
amours  of  Pasiphae  and  the  bull.  The  bull,  the  heraldic 
emblem  of  the  Borgias,  was  repeated  on  all  the  ornaments  of 
the  room,  toget  her  with  the  triple  tiara  and  the  keys  of  St.  Peter. 


'AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        345 

The  room  was  warm  and  scented.  A  fire  of  juniper  burned 
on  the  marble  hearth,  and  the  lamp  oil  was  perfumed  with 
violets.  Caesar,  elegantly  dressed,  lay  on  a  flat  couch  in  the 
middle  of  the  room ;  he  cared  for  two  postures  only,  reclining, 
or  sitting  on  horseback.  Apparently  indifferent  to  everything, 
he  leaned  his  elbow  on  a  pillow,  listened  to  a  report  from  a 
secretary,  and  watched  a  game  of  chess  which  two  of  his 
attendants  were  playing  on  a  jasper  table  by  his  side.  He 
had  the  faculty  of  divided  attention.  With  a  slow,  uniform, 
mechanical  movement  he  passed  backwards  and  forwards 
from  one  hand  to  the  other  a  golden  ball  filled  with  scent, 
which  he  carried  as  religiously  as  his  Damascene  dagger. 

XI 

He  received  Leonardo  with  a  peculiar  and  charming 
courtesy.  Not  permitting  him  to  kneel,  he  held  his  hand  and 
made  him  sit  in  an  armchair  by  his  side.  The  duke  wished  to 
consult  him  about  plans  tendered  by  Bramante  for  a  new 
monastery  at  the  town  of  Imola,  which  was  to  be  called  Valen- 
tino, and  to  have  a  superb  chapel,  a  hospital,  and  a  refuge  for 
pilgrims.  By  such  munificent  works  of  charity  he  wished  to 
erect  a  monument  to  his  own  Christian  beneficence.  After 
Bramante's  designs,  he  exhibited  letters  just  cut  for  Girolamo 
Soncino's  new  printing-press  at  Fano,  being  zealous  in  the 
encouragement  of  the  arts  and  sciences  in  his  dominions. 
Agapito  then  gave  his  master  a  collection  of  eulogistic  odes 
by  Franceso  Uberti  the  court  poet;  these  Caesar  received 
graciously,  commanding  a  liberal  reward  for  the  author. 
Then,  as  he  insisted  upon  seeing  satires  no  less  than  eulogies, 
the  secretary  handed  him  a  poem  by  Mancioni  the  Neapolitan, 
who  had  been  seized  and  confined  in  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo 
in  Rome.  This  sonnet  was  full  of  savage  abuse;  in  it  Caesar 
was  called  a  mule,  the  mongrel  offspring  of  a  harlot  and  a 
pope,  sitting  on  a  throne,  once  Christ's  now  Satan's;  a 
circumcised  Turk,  a  disfrocked  cardinal,  incestuous,  apostate, 
fratiicidal. 

*  Why,  O  God,  waitest  Thou  ?  ■  cried  the  poet ;  *  carest  thou 
not  that  Holy  Church  has  become  a  stall  for  mules,  a  den  of 
orgies  ? ' 

'  How  does  your  Excellency  wish  the  villain  to  be  dealt 
with  ? !  asked  Agapito. 


346  THE  FORERUNNER 

'Leave  him  till  my  return,' replied  the  duke  quietly,  'I 
will  deal  with  him  myself.  I  shall  know  how  to  teach  these 
scribblers  manners  ! '  he  added,  in  a  low  voice. 

Caesar's  method  of  teaching  manners  was  not  unknown. 
For  less  serious  affronts  he  had  cut  off  hands,  and  seared 
tongues  with  red  hot  irons.  His  report  finished,  the  secretary 
withdrew.  Then  audience  was  given  to  Valguglio,  the  astro- 
loger, who  had  drawn  a  new  horoscope.  The  duke  listened 
attentively,  for  he  was  a  believer  in  the  influences  of  the 
stars.  Valguglio  explained  that  Caesar's  late  illness  was  due 
to  the  entrance  of  Mars  into  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion ;  the 
complaint  would  pass  when  Venus  had  reached  her  rising  in 
Taurus.  Had  the  duke  any  matter  of  importance  in  hand,  let 
him  choose  for  its  date  the  afternoon  of  the  31st  of  December, 
as  the  conjunction  of  stars  that  day  was  propitious;  and 
bending  toward  the  duke's  ear  and  raising  his  finger  im- 
pressively, the  astrologer  repeated  thrice  in  a  mysterious 
whisper— 

■ Fatilo,  Fatilo,  Fatilo '— '  Do  it.     Do  it.      Do  it ! ' 

Caesar  made  no  reply,  but  it  seemed  to  Leonardo  that 
a  shadow  passed  over  his  face.  Then  he  dismissed  the 
seer  and  turned  again  to  the  Ingegnere  Ducale. 

Leonardo  unfolded  military  plans  and  maps.  Not  merely 
scientific,  showing  the  nature  of  the  soil,  the  direction  of  the 
watersheds,  the  mountains,  the  windings  of  the  rivers — they 
were  also  artistic  bird's-eye  pictures  of  the  localities,  coloured 
after  Nature,  and  with  every  detail  executed  in  perfection. 
Squares,  streets  and  towers  of  the  towns  could  be  recognised ; 
the  spectator  felt  as  if  flying  over  the  earth,  and  seeing  at  his 
feet  an  infinite  expanse.  Caesar  examined  with  great  attention 
the  topography  of  the  district  bounded  on  the  south  by  the  lake 
of  Bolsena,  on  the  north  by  the  Val  d'Ema,  on  the  east  by 
Arezzo  and  Perugia,  on  the  west  by  Siena  and  the  littoral. 
This  was  the  heart  of  Italy,  Leonardo's  home,  the  territory 
of  Florence,  long  coveted  by  the  duke.  Immersed  in 
thought,  enjoying  this  fancied  flight,  Caesar  gazed  long  at 
Leonardo's  drawing,  and  felt  as  if  he  and  the  great  inventor 
were  in  such  sort  engaged  in  the  same  work.  He  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  artist  and  cordially  pressed  his  hand. 

•  I  th  ink  you,  my  Leonardo.  Continue  to  serve  me  thus 
and  I  shall  know  how  to  reward  you.  Are  you  comfortable 
among  us?  '  he  continued  solicitously;  'are  you  satisfied  with 


«AUT  CAESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503       347 

your  salary?  Have  you  any  request  to  make?  You  know 
my  pleasure  in  gratifying  you.' 

Leonardo,  profiting  by  the  opportunity,  asked  an  audience 
for  Messer  Niccolo.  Caesar  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a 
good-humoured  smile. 

1  He  is  a  strange  man,  your  Messer  Niccolo.  He  demands 
audience,  and,  when  I  receive  him,  talks  about  nothing  at 
all.  Why  did  they  send  me  such  a  mysterious  person?' 
Presently  he  asked  Leonardo's  opinion  of  the  man. 

'  I  find  him,  Excellence,  one  of  the  most  astute  and  most 
clear-sighted  persons  I  have  met  in  my  whole  life.' 

'  He  is  certainly  intelligent,'  said  the  duke,  '  and  I  doubt 
not  he  has  understanding  of  affairs.  And  yet — he  is  unreli- 
able. He  knows  no  mean  in  anything.  However — I  wish 
him  well,  especially  since  he  has  your  good  word.  He  is 
guileless,  though  he  thinks  himself  the  most  cunning  of  men, 
and  would  deceive  me,  whom  he  considers  the  enemy  of  your 
Republic.  I  pardon  him,  understanding  that  he  loves  his 
country  better  than  his  soul.  Well,  I  will  receive  him ;  tell 
him  so.  By  the  way,  have  I  not  heard  he  is  compiling  a  book 
on  Statecraft  and  the  Art  of  War?  ' 

Caesar  laughed  his  low  pleasant  laugh,  as  if  reminded  of 
something  which  had  tickled  him. 

1  Have  you  heard  about  the  Macedonian  phalanx  ?  No  ? 
Then  listen.  Once,  Messer  Niccolo  explained  from  this  very 
book  on  war  to  my  Master  of  the  Camp,  Bartolomeo 
Capranica,  and  other  captains,  the  laws  of  ranging  troops  after 
the  manner  of  the  phalanx.  He  spoke  with  such  eloquence 
that  all  desired  to  see  the  phalanx  in  actual  fact.  We 
went  to  a  suitable  field  and  Niccolo  was  to  give  orders. 
Well,  he  wrestled  with  two  thousand  soldiers  for  nearly  three 
hours  exposing  them  to  the  cold,  the  wind,  the  rain,  but  he 
could  not  form  his  own  phalanx.  At  last  Bartolomeo  lost 
patience ;  he  had  never  read  a  military  book  in  his  life,  but 
he  took  the  troop  in  hand,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
he  had  drawn  up  the  infantry  in  the  desired  order.  There 
we  see  the  difference  between  practice  and  theory.  But  take 
care  how  you  allude  to  it !  Messer  Niccolo  does  not  like  to 
be  reminded  of  anything  Macedonian  ! ' 

By  this  time  it  was  three  o'  clock  and  the  duke's  supper 
was  brought,  a  dish  of  fruit,  trout,  and  some  white  wine ;  like  a 
true  Spaniard  he  ate  and  drank  most  sparingly.     Leonardo 


343  THE  FORERUNNER 

was  dismissed,  but  not  before  Caesar  had  again  thanked  him 
for  the  maps.  Three  pages  carrying  torches  were  detailed  to 
escort  him  to  his  lodging. 

The  painter  told  Machiavelli  about  his  interview  with  the 
duke.  When  he  spoke  of  the  maps  of  the  Florentine  territory 
Messer  Niccolb  grew  thoughtful. 

'  What  ?  You  ?  A  citizen  of  our  republic,  for  our  bitterest 
enemy?  Do  you  know,  sir,  that  for  this  you  may  be  accused 
of  treason  ? ' 

*  Really?'  said  Leonardo,  astonished:  'I  don't  wish  to 
think  so,  Niccolb.  I  am  no  politician,  but  obey  like  a  blind 
man.' 

Silently  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  ;  and  each  recog- 
nised the  profound  difference  between  them.  The  one  might 
be  said  to  have  no  country :  the  other  loved  his  country,  in 
Caesar's  phrase,  'above  his  own  soul.' 


XII 

That  night  Niccolb  went  away,  leaving  no  word  as  to  the 
Whither  and  the  Why. 

He  returned  next  day,  weary  and  frozen,  entered  Leonardo's 
room,  bolted  the  door,  and  announced  that  he  wished  to 
speak  on  a  matter  of  profoundest  secrecy.  Then  he  began  a 
narrative. 

Three  years  ago,  one  winter  evening,  in  a  deserted  corner 
of  Romagna  between  Cervia  and  Porto  Cesenatico,  a  body  of 
cavalry  was  escorting  Madonna  Dorotea,  wife  of  Battista 
Caracciolo,  captain  of  infantry  in  the  service  of  the  Serenissima 
Signoria  of  Venice,  and  her  cousin,  Maria,  a  fifteen  year  old 
novice  in  an  Urbino  convent,  from  Urbino  to  Venice. 
Horsemen  armed  and  masked  fell  on  the  party,  seized  the 
ladies,  put  them  on  horses,  and  carried  them  off.  From  that 
day  they  had  not  been  heard  of.  The  Council  and  Senate  of 
Venice,  considering  themselves  outraged  in  the  person  of  their 
captain,  appealed  to  Louis  xn.,  to  the  King  of  Spain,  and 
to  the  pope,  openly  accusing  the  Duke  of  Romagna  of  the 
abduction  of  Dorotea.  However,  they  could  not  prove  their 
case,  and  Caesar  replied  mockingly  that,  having  no  lack  of 
women,  he  had  not  occasion  to  steal  them  by  highway  robbery. 
Reports  began  to  be  current,  moreover,  that  Dorotea   had 


«AUT  C/ESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503       349 

quickly  consoled  herself,  and  that,  having  forgotten  her 
husband,  she  followed  the  duke  in  all  his  campaigns. 

Maria,  however,  had  a  brother,  Messer  Dionigi,  a  young 
captain  in  the  service  of  Florence.  When  all  the  complaints 
of  the  Florentine  Signoria,  before  whom  he  had  laid  the  matter, 
proved  as  vain  as  the  representations  of  the  Venetians, 
Dionigi  determined  to  act  on  his  own  authority.  He  presented 
himself  before  the  duke  under  a  feigned  name,  gained  his 
confidence,  obtained  admission  to  the  dungeon  of  the  Castle 
of  Cesena,  found  his  sister,  disguised  her  as  a  boy,  and  made 
his  escape  with  her.  But  at  the  Perugian  frontier  the 
fugitives  were  overtaken,  Dionigi  was  killed,  and  Maria  haled 
back  to  her  prison. 

Machiavelli,  as  Secretary  of  the  Florentine  Republic,  was 
interested  in  the  event.  He  had  been  in  Dionigi's  confidence, 
and  had  learned  from  him  not  only  the  plan  of  rescue,  but 
the  accounts  which  the  brother  had  acquired  of  his  sister's 
ill-fortune,  and  of  her  reputation  as  a  miracle-working  saint, 
bearing  the  l  stigmata '  like  St.  Catharine  of  Siena. 

Caesar,  tired  of  Dorotea,  had  cast  his  eyes  on  Maria, 
and  having  never  experienced  difficulty  with  women,  not 
even  with  the  most  discreet,  counted  on  an  easy  conquest. 
He  was  mistaken.  The  girl  met  him  with  a  resistance 
which  he  could  not  overcome.  Report  said  that  of  late  the 
duke  had  constantly  visited  her  in  her  cell,  staying  for  long 
periods  alone  with  her.  But  what  passed  at  these  interviews 
no  one  knew. 

Machiavelli  ended  his  recital  with  expression  of  a  fixed 
determination  to  rescue  Maria. 

1  If  you,  Messer  Leonardo,  will  consent  to  help  me,  I  will 
so  arrange  the  matter  that  none  shall  know  of  your  share  in 
it.  First  I  shall  require  of  you  information  as  to  the  internal 
construction  and  arrangement  of  the  Castle  of  San  Michele, 
where  Maria  is  kept  in  durance.  You,  as  the  court  engineer, 
will  find  it  easy  to  obtain  entrance  and  to  discover  all  we 
need  to  know.' 

Leonardo  for  all  reply  gazed  at  his  friend  in  amazement, 
and  presently  Messer  Niccolo  broke  into  a  forced  and  some- 
what angry  laugh. 

*I  hope,'  he  said,  'you  do  not  honour  me  by  thinking 
me  over  sentimental,  too  chivalrously  generous  ?  Whether 
Caesar  seduce  this  minx  or  no  is  nothing  to  me.     Would  you 


35o  THE  FORERUNNER 

know  why  I  concern  myself  in  the  affair?  First,  to  show  the 
illustrious  Signoria  that  I  am  good  for  something  besides 
foolery  ;  but  secondly  and  chiefly,  because  I  require  amuse- 
ment. If  a  man  commit  no  follies  he  loses  his  wits 
through  weariness.  I  am  sick  of  chattering,  playing  dice, 
going  to  bawdy  houses,  and  making  vain  reports  to  the 
Florentine  Wool-staplers.  So  I  have  devised  this  adventure  : 
action  I  assure  you,  not  mere  talk.  The  opportunity  must 
not  be  wasted.  My  whole  plan  is  ready  and  I  have  taken  all 
necessary  precautions.' 

He  spoke  hurriedly  as  if  excusing  himself.  Leonardo,  how- 
ever, understood  that  he  was  ashamed  of  genuine  kind- 
heartedness,  and  was  trying  to  conceal  it  under  a  mask  of 
cynicism. 

1  Messere/  said  the  artist,  '  I  pray  you  to  rely  on  me  in  this 
matter  as  on  yourself.  But  on  one  condition,  that  if  we  fail, 
I  shall  share  your  responsibility.' 

Niccolo,  visibly  touched,  clasped  his  hand,  and  at  once  set 
forth  his  design.  Leonardo  made  no  criticism,  though  in  his 
heart  he  doubted  whether  it  would  prove  practical.  The 
liberation  of  the  captive  was  fixed  for  the  30th  of  December. 

Two  days  before  the  date  agreed  upon,  one  of  Maria's 
gaolers,  who  was  in  Niccolo's  pay,  came  running  to  inform 
him  that  Caesar  knew  all.  Machiavelli  being  absent, 
Leonardo  went  in  search  of  him  to  give  him  this  news.  He 
found  the  Florentine  Secretary  in  a  tavern,  where  a  troop  of 
gamesters,  chiefly  Spanish  soldiers,  were  fleecing  inexpert 
players  at  dice  or  cards.  Surrounded  by  a  merry  group  of 
young  libertines,  Machiavelli  was  expounding  that  famous 
sonnet  of  Petrarch's  on  Laura,  which  ends : — 

'  E  lei  vid'  io  ferita  in  mezzo  '1  core ' 

and  discovering  some  obscene  allusion  in  every  line,  while  his 
hearers  were  convulsed  with  laughter. 

Suddenly  an  uproar  arose  in  the  next  room ;  women 
screamed,  tables  were  overthrown,  swords  clashed,  coins  and 
broken  bottles  were  dashed  against  the  walls  and  floor.  One 
of  the  players  had  been  detected  cheating.  Niccolo's 
audience  ran  to  join  the  fray,  and  Leonardo  whispered  his 
news  to  his  friend,  and  led  him  home. 

It  was  a  still,  star-lit  night.  New  fallen  snow  creaked 
under  their  feet ;  the  fragrance  of  the  air  was  delicious  after 


•AUT  CAESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503       351 

the  stifling  tavern.  When  Messer  Niccolo  heard  that  their 
plot  for  the  rescue  of  the  girl  Maria  had  come  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  duke,  he  replied  coolly  that  for  the  moment 
there  was  no  occasion  for  alarm.  Then  he  continued  with 
voluble  apology. 

'  You  were  surprised  to  find  me  acting  cheap  jack  to  that 
Spanish  rabble?  What  of  it?  Tis  law  of  necessity. 
Necessity  jumps,  Necessity  dances,  Necessity  trolls  catches. 
They  may  be  rascals,  but  they  are  more  generous  than  the 
magnificent  Signoria  of  Florence.' 

There  was  so  much  bitterness  and  self-accusation  in  his 
tone  that  Leonardo  could  not  bear  it. 

1  You  are  wrong,  Messer  Niccolo,'  he  said,  '  to  speak  thus 
with  me.   I  am  your  friend  and  shall  not  judge  like  the  vulgar.' 

Machiavelli  turned  away — and  answered  in  a  low  voice, 
1 1  know  it — judge  me  not  harshly,  Leonardo.  Often  I  jest 
and  laugh  lest  my  heart's  grief  should  set  me  weeping.  Such 
is  my  lot !  I  was  born  under  a  luckless  star.  While  my 
fellows,  men  of  no  intelligence,  succeed  in  everything,  live  in 
honour  and  luxury,  acquire  power  and  wealth,  I  remain 
behind  them  all,  out-jostled  by  fools.  They  think  me  a  buffoon, 
perchance  they  be  right.  Yet  I  fear  neither  great  labours 
nor  certain  perils ;  but  what  I  cannot  suffer  is  that  my  life 
should  be  consumed  in  the  pitiful  effort  to  make  two  ends 
meet,  to  tremble  over  every  groat,  to  endure  paltry  affronts  daily 
from  my  inferiors  !  'Tis  an  accursed  life  !  If  God  do  not  come 
to  my  aid,  I  shall  end  by  abandoning  my  work,  my  Marietta, 
and  my  son.  What  am  I  but  a  burden  to  them  and  to  all  ? 
Let  them  think  what  they  will :  let  them  imagine  me  dead. 
I  will  hide  me  in  some  distant  hamlet,  some  corner  of  the 
earth  where  none  shall  know  me ;  where  I  shall  be  clerk  to 
the podesta,  or  teacher  of  the  alphabet  in  a  village  school,  that 
I  may  not  die  of  starvation  so  long  as  I  retain  my  senses. 
My  friend,  there  is  naught  more  terrible  than  to  feel  in  your- 
self the  power  to  do  something,  and  to  know  that  you  will 
perish  and  die  without  ever  having  accomplished  anything 
whatsoever.' 

XIII 

As  the  day  for  the  adventure  approached,  Leonardo  per- 
ceived that  Machiavelli,  notwithstanding  his  anticipations 
of  success,  was  losing  his  coolness,  and  becoming  inclined 


353  THE  FORERUNNER 

either  to  undue  caution  or  to  over  precipitancy.  The  artist 
knew  well  this  state  of  mind :  the  result,  not  of  cowardice 
nor  of  pusillanimity,  but  of  that  treachery  of  the  will,  that 
fatal  irresolution  when  the  moment  for  striking  has  arrived* 
which  is  inherent  in  men  made  for  contemplation  rather  than 
for  action. 

On  the  eve  of  the  eventful  day  Niccolo  went  to  a  little  place 
near  the  Torre  di  San  Michele,  to  made  the  final  preparations. 
Leonardo  was  to  join  him  early  in  the  morning.  Left  alone, 
the  latter  momentarily  expected  disastrous  news ;  he  felt 
very  little  do'.bt  that  the  affair  would  end  in  some  stupid 
failure,  on  a  par  with  the  prank  of  a  schoolboy. 

The  dull  winter  morning  was  dawning,  and  he  was  about 
to  make  his  start  when  Niccolb  returned.  Pale  and  woe- 
begone, he  sank  half-fainting  on  a  chair. 

'  'Tis  at  an  end,'  he  said  shortly. 

'I  expected  as  much!'  cried  Leonardo.  'I  guessed  we 
should  fail.' 

•We  have  not  failed,  but  we  are  too  late;  the  bird  has 
flown.' 

'  How  has  she  flown  ? ' 

1  This  morning,  before  the  dawn,  Maria  was  found  on  the 
prison  floor  with  her  throat  cut.' 

*  And  the  murderer  is ?' 

'  The  murderer  is  unknown,  but  it  is  not  the  duke.  Caesar 
and  his  executioners  are  no  bunglers,  and  this  poor  child  has 

been  hacked They  say  she  has  died  a  maid.     My 

notion  is  that  she  herself ' 

*  Impossible!  She  would  not  have  done  it.  She  was 
a  saint * 

'Anything  is  possible.  You  don't  know  this  crew  yet. 
And  that  infamous  assassin — I  tell  you  that  infamous  assassin 
is  capable  of  anything !  He  could  force  even  a  saint  to  lay 
hands  on  herself!  Ah  !  I  saw  her  twice  in  the  beginning  of 
her  martyrdom,  when  she  was  not  so  closely  watched.  She 
was  fragile,  with  an  innocent  face  like  a  child's.  Her  hair 
was  thin  and  of  pale  gold,  like  Lippo  Lippi's  Madonna  in 
the  Badia.  There  was  no  special  beauty  about  her.  Oh,  Messer 
Leonardo,  you  cannot  know  what  a  sweet,  helpless  child  she 
was!' 

He  turned  away,  tears  glistening  on  his  eyelashes.  But  he 
continued  in  a  sharp,  forced  voice : — 


«AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        353 

'  I  have  always  said  it !  An  honourable  man  in  this  court 
is  like  a  fish  in  a  frying-pan.  I  have  had  enough  of  it !  I 
was  not  made  to  be  a  slave.  The  Signoria  must  transfer  me. 
I  won't  stay  here.' 

Leonardo  was  sincerely  grieved  for  Maria,  and  he  would 
have  done  his  utmost  on  her  behalf.  Nevertheless  it  was  a 
relief  both  to  him  and  to  Messer  Niccolo  that  there  was  no 
longer  any  demand  upon  them  for  decisive  action. 

XIV 

The  larger  part  of  Caesar's  army  marched  out  of  Fano  at 
dawn  on  the  30th  of  December,  and  encamped  outside  Sini- 
gaglia.  Next  day  (the  date  recommended  by  the  astrologer), 
the  duke  himself  was  to  arrive.  Sinigaglia  had  been  besieged 
by  the  confederates  of  Mugione,  who  had  come  to  terms  with 
Caesar,  and  were  now  acting  for  him.  The  town  had  sur- 
rendered, but  the  commandant  of  the  castle  swore  he  would 
open  his  gates  only  to  Caesar  in  person.  Accordingly  the 
duke  had  sent  word  that  he  was  coming,  and  he  had  invited 
the  repentant  confederates  to  meet  him  on  the  banks  of  the 
Metauro,  where  his  camp  lay,  that  they  might  hold  a  council 
of  war.  These  men,  his  former  enemies,  now  his  allies,  had 
perhaps  a  presentiment  of  evil,  and  would  have  declined  to 
meet  him.  However,  he  reassured  them,  'bewitching  them,' 
as  Machiavelli  afterwards  wrote,  i  like  the  basilisk  which 
entices  its  victims  by  the  sweetness  of  its  singing/ 

Machiavelli  left  Fano  with  the  duke.  Leonardo  followed 
alone  some  hours  later. 

The  road  led  southwards  along  the  seashore.  On  the  right, 
mountains  descended  sheer  to  the  sea,  scarcely  allowing  room 
for  the  narrow  road  at  their  base.  It  was  a  grey  day,  very 
still;  the  water  was  grey  and  unruffled  as  the  sky.  The 
drowsy  air,  the  chirping  of  the  birds,  black  spots  and  holes  in 
the  surface  of  the  snow,  all  portended  a  thaw. 

At  last  the  brick  towers  of  Sinigaglia  came  in  sight ;  the 
town  lay  like  a  trap  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea,  not 
a  mile  from  the  Adriatic,  not  a  cross-bow  shot  from  the  foot 
of  the  Apennines.  Upon  meeting  the  stream  of  the  Misa, 
the  road  turned  sharply  to  the  left ;  here  was  a  bridge  slanting 
across  the  little  river,  and  behind  it  the  gates  of  the  town 
frowned  across  a  square  with  low  buildings,  chiefly  store- 
2 


354  THE  FORERUNNER 

houses  belonging  to  Venetian  merchants.  At  that  time  Sini- 
gaglia  was  a  large  semi-Oriental  bazaar,  where  Italian  traders 
exchanged  their  wares  with  Turks,  Armenians,  Greeks, 
Persians,  and  Slavs  from  Montenegro  and  Albania.  At 
this  moment,  however,  even  the  busiest  streets  were  empty. 
Leonardo  met  only  soldiers.  Here  and  there  in  the  long 
arcades,  which  extended  monotonously  along  each  side  of 
the  street,  in  the  shops,  the  warehouses,  the  fondachiy  he  saw 
traces  of  plunder — broken  glass,  forced  locks,  severed  bolts 
and  bars,  doors  thrown  open,  and  wares  and  bales  ruthlessly 
exposed.  There  was  a  smell  of  fire,  and  some  half-consumed 
houses  were  still  smoking ;  corpses  hung  from  the  iron  lamp- 
stanchions  at  the  corners  of  the  palace. 

It  was  growing  dark  when,  in  the  principal  piazza  near  the 
palace,  Leonardo  saw  Caesar  Borgia  surrounded  by  his  guards. 
He  was  punishing  the  soldiers  who  had  pillaged  the  town. 
Messer  Agapito  was  in  the  act  of  reading  their  sentences ; 
then  at  a  sign  from  the  duke  the  condemned  were  conduced 
to  the  gallows.  At  this  moment  Leonardo  was  joined  by 
Machiavelli. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  it  ? '  asked  Messer  Niccolb  eagerly, 
'if  indeed  you  have  heard ' 

*I  have  heard  nothing,  and  am  glad  to  meet  you.  Pray 
tell  me.' 

Machiavelli  took  him  into  the  next  street,  then  through 
several  narrow  lanes,  choked  with  snow,  to  a  deserted  district 
by  the  shore.  Here  in  a  lonely  tumble-down  hovel,  belonging 
to  the  widow  of  a  shipbuilder,  he  had  succeeded  in  finding 
the  only  vacant  quarters  in  the  town,  two  diminutive  rooms  for 
himself  and  his  friend.  He  lit  a  candle,  drew  a  bottle  of 
wine  from  his  pocket,  broke  its  neck  against  the  wall,  and 
seated  himself  opposite  Leonardo,  gazing  at  him  with  glowing 
eyes. 

'You  have  not  heard?'  he  said  gravely.  'A  rare  and 
memorable  thing  has  been  done.  Caesar  has  revenged 
himself  on  his  enemies.  The  conspirators  have  been  seized ; 
Oliverotto,  Orsini,  and  Vitelli  are  awaiting  sentence  of  death.' 
He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  watching  Leonardo,  and 
enjoying  his  astonishment.  Then  making  an  effort  to  appear 
calm  and  dispassionate,  he  told  the  story  of  the  trap  of 
Sinigaglia. 

Arrived  early  at  the  camp  on  the  Metauro,  Caesar  sent 


•AUT  CAESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503        355 

forward  two  hundred  horsemen,  set  the  infantry  in  motion, 
and  followed  them  himself  with  the  rest  of  the  cavalry. 
Pie  knew  that  the  allied  generals  would  come  to  meet  him, 
and  that  their  forces  had  been  distributed  in  the  forts 
surrounding  the  town,  so  as  to  make  room  for  the  new 
troops.  Outside  the  gates  where  the  road  curved,  following 
the  bank  of  the  Misa,  he  drew  up  his  cavalry  in  two  lines, 
leaving  space  between  them  for  the  passage  of  the  infantry, 
which,  without  a  halt,  crossed  the  bridge  and  entered  the 
gates  of  the  town. 

The  allies,  Orsini,  Gravina,  and  Vitellozzo,  rode  out  to 
meet  the  duke,  escorted  by  a  few  horsemen.  As  if  presaging 
disaster,  Vitellozzo  was  so  gloomy  and  abstracted  that  those 
about  him  who  knew  his  customary  phlegm  were  astounded ; 
it  was  known  that  he  had  taken  leave  of  his  family  as  if  going 
to  his  death.  The  generals  dismounted  from  their  mules 
and  saluted  the  duke.  He  also  left  his  horse,  gave  his  hand 
to  each,  and  then  embraced  and  kissed  them,  calling  them 
his  *  beloved  brothers,'  with  many  demonstrations  of  courtesy. 
According  to  a  preconcerted  arrangement,  Caesar's  captains 
surrounded  the  generals  in  such  a  way  that  each  was  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  Borgia's  adherents;  meantime  the 
duke,  observing  the  absence  of  Oliverotto,  signed  to  Don 
Michele  Corella,  his  captain,  who  rode  off,  and  having  found 
Oliverotto  with  his  troops,  made  a  pretext  for  bringing  him 
also  to  Caesar's  presence.  Then,  conversing  amicably  on 
military  matters  and  future  tactics,  they  went  all  together  to 
the  palace,  which  stood  just  in  front  of  the  fortress. 

At  the  entrance  the  generals  would  have  taken  their  leave, 
but  the  duke,  with  the  same  urbanity  as  before,  invited  them 
into  the  palace. 

Scarcely  had  they  set  foot  in  the  first  chamber,  when  the 
doors  were  secured,  armed  men  rushed  on  the  four  generals, 
seized,  disarmed,  and  bound  them.  Such  was  their  astonish- 
ment that  they  scarce  offered  any  resistance.  The  duke 
intended  to  disembarrass  himself  of  his  victims  that  very 
night  by  strangling  them  in  a  secluded  part  of  the  palace. 

'Truly,  Messer  Leonardo,'  cried  Machiavelli,  '  I  would  you 
"had  seen  how  he  embraced  them  and  kissed  them  !  One 
mistrustful  glance,  one  suspicious  gesture  might  have  betrayed 
him ;  but  there  was  such  sincerity  in  his  voice,  on  his  coun- 
tenance, that  till  the  final  moment  I  guessed  naught,  nor 


356  THE  FORERUNNER 

could  have  believed  he  was  acting  a  part.  Of  all  stratagems 
since  politics  began,  this  must  be  the  finest ! 

Leonardo  smiled.  'Doubtless,'  he  said,  'his  Excellency 
has  exhibited  audacity  and  craft;  but  I  comprehend  not  what 
in  this  betrayal  so  moves  your  admiration.' 

'Betrayal?  Nay,  sir,  when  it  is  a  question  of  saving  your 
country,  there  can  be  no  question  of  betrayal  or  of  loyalty,  of 
good  or  evil,  of  clemency  or  cruelty.  All  means  are  alike, 
provided  the  object  is  gained/ 

'  Is  this  a  question  of  saving  his  country  ?  Methinks  the 
duke  has  studied  but  his  own  advantage.' 

'  Can  it  be  that  even  you  do  not  understand  ?  Caesar  is  the 
future  autocrat  of  an  united  Italy.  Never  was  a  time  more 
favourable  for  the  advent  of  a  hero.  If  Israel  had  to  serve  in 
bondage  in  order  that  Moses  should  arise ;  if  the  Persians 
had  to  lie  under  the  yoke  of  the  Medes  that  Cyrus  might  be 
exalted;  if  the  Athenians  had  to  waste  themselves  in  inter- 
necine strife  that  Theseus  might  have  eternal  glory,  then 
it  is  necessary  also,  in  this  our  own  day,  that  Italy  be 
shamed,  and  enslaved,  bound,  and  divided,  without  a  head, 
without  a  leader,  without  a  guide ;  devastated,  trampled 
on,  crushed  by  all  the  woes  which  a  nation  can  endure,  in 
order  that  a  new  hero  shall  rise  to  be  the  saviour  of  his 
land.  Many  times  men  have  appeared  whom  she  has  fancied 
the  destined  one,  and  have  died  leaving  the  great  deed 
undone.  Half-dead,  scarce  breathing,  she  still  awaits  her 
deliverer,  who  shall  heal  her  wounds,  put  an  end  to  disorder 
in  Lombardy,  plunder  in  Tuscany,  extortion  and  murder  in 
Naples.  Day  and  night  Italy  cries  to  her  God,  if,  perchance, 
He  will  send  her  a  saviour  ! ' 

His  voice  rang  like  a  chord  too  tightly  stretched,  and 
broke.  He  was  white  and  shaking,  and  his  eyes  glowed.  In 
his  excitement  was  something  convulsive,  powerless,  akin  to 
epilepsy. 

Leonardo  remembered  how,  speaking  of  Maria's  suicide,  he 
had  called  the  Duke  of  Valentinois  a  monster  of  crime.  He 
did  not  point  out  the  inconsistency,  knowing  that  Messer 
Niccolb,  in  his  exaltation,  would  repudiate  his  softer  mood. 

'  Who  lives  long,  sees  much,  Niccolb  mio.  But  permit  me 
one  question.  Why  is  it  to-day  that  you  have  assured  your- 
self of  Caesar's  divine  election?  Has  the  inganno  di 
Sinigaglia  proved  his  heroism?' 


'AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL,— 1500-1503        357 

'Yes,'  replied  Machiavelli,  recovering  his  impartial  air; 
'the  violence  of  his  action  has  shown  that  he  has  the  rare 
combination  of  great  qualities  and  their  opposites.  I  do 
not  blame.  I  do  not  praise.  I  simply  examine.  Here  is 
my  reasoning  on  the  matter:  there  are  two  ways  open  to 
him  who  would  arrive  at  a  particular  end.  The  first  is 
law,  the  second  violence.  The  first  belongs  to  men — the 
second  to  beasts.  He  who  wishes  to  rule  must  trtad  both 
ways,  must  know  how  to  be  either  beast  or  man.  Such 
is  the  inner  meaning  of  the  old  legends  of  Achilles  and 
other  heroes  nurtured  by  Chiron,  the  centaur,  half-god,  half- 
beast.  The  major  part  of  men  cannot  support  the  weight  of 
liberty,  and  fear  it  more  than  death.  When  they  have  com- 
mitted a  crime  they  are  crushed  under  the  burden  of 
repentance.  'Tis  only  the  hero,  the  man  of  destiny,  who 
has  the  strength  to  support  liberty,  who  breaks  laws  without 
fear,  without  remorse,  who  remains  innocent  even  in  evil,  as 
do  beasts  and  gods.  To-day,  for  the  first  time,  I  have  seen 
in  Caesar  the  infallible  sign  that  he  is  elect  of  God  !' 

1  Yes,  yes,  I  understand/  said  Leonardo  moodily ;  '  but  to 
my  thinking  that  man  is  not  free  who,  like  Caesar,  dares  all 
because  he  knows  naught  and  loves  naught.  /  call  him  free 
who  dares  all  because  he  knows  all  and  loves  all.  That  is  the 
liberty  whereby  men  shall  conquer  both  good  and  evil,  the 
height  and  the  abyss,  the  bounds  of  earth,  its  obstacles  and 
burdens  ;  shall  become  as  gods,  and  fly.' 

'Fly?'  said  Machiavelli  bewildered. 

'When  they  have  perfect  knowledge  they  will  make  them- 
selves wings.  'Tis  a  subject  upon  which  I  have  thought 
much.  Perhaps  nothing  will  come  of  it.  I  care  not ;  if  it  be 
not  I,  'twill  be  another.  The  day  will  come  when  there 
shall  be  wings.' 

•  Well,  let  us  congratulate  each  other.  Our  talk  has  led  us 
to  a  new  creation.  My  prince  is  to  be  half-god,  half-beast; 
and  you  have  given  him  wings.' 

But  the  striking  of  a  clock  in  the  neighbouring  tower 
drove  Messer  Niccolb  forth  ;  he  had  to  hasten  to  the  palace 
that  he  might  learn  of  the  impending  execution  of  the 
generals. 

Isabella  Gonzaga,  Marchesa  of  Mantua,  by  way  of  con- 
gratulation,  sent  Cesare  a  carnival  gift  of  a  hundred  pretty 
masks  in  coloured  silk. 


35S  THE  FORERUNNER 

XV 

Caesar  returned  to  Rome  in  the  beginning  of  March  1503. 
The  Pope  proposed  to  reward  the  hero  with  the  Golden 
Rose,  the  highest  distinction  which  the  Church  could  confer 
on  her  champions.  The  cardinals  assented,  and  two  days 
later  the  ceremony  of  investiture  took  place.  The  Roman 
Curia  and  the  envoys  of  the  great  powers  assembled  in  the 
Sala  de'  Pontefici,  which  looks  out  on  the  Cortile  del  Belvedere. 
Alexander  VI.,  seventy  years  of  age  and  corpulent,  but  still 
vigorous  and  majestic,  ascended  the  dais,  wearing  the 
begemmed  mantle  and  triple  crown,  the  ostrich  fans  waving 
over  his  head. 

Trumpets  blared,  and  at  a  signal  from  Johann  Burckhardt, 
Master  of  Ceremonies,  the  armour-bearers,  pages,  courien, 
and  guards  of  the  Duke  of  Romagna,  entered  the  hall, 
accompanied  by  Bartolomeo  Capranica,  his  Master  of  the 
Camp,  bearing  the  naked  sword  of  the  Gonfaloniere  of  the 
Roman  Church.  The  sword  was  gilded  and  damascened 
with  delicate  designs.  First,  the  Goddess  of  Fidelity  seated 
on  a  throne,  with  the  legend,  *  Fidelity  is  stronger  than  Arms/ 
Secondly,  Julius  Ccesar  in  his  triumphal  car,  with  the  legend, 
1  Aut  Ccesar  aut  Nihil.1  Thirdly,  the  passage  of  the  Rubicon 
with  the  legend,  '  The  die  is  cast.'  Lastly,  a  sacrifice  to  the 
Bull  of  the  House  of  Borgia — naked  priestesses  burning 
incense  over  a  human  victim,  and  on  the  altar  the  inscription 
'  Deo  Optimo  maximo  Hosi 'ia1 'and  lower,  '  In  nomine  Ccesaris 
omen.1  The  human  sacrifice  to  the  beast  acquired  a  more 
terrible  meaning  from  the  fact  that  these  engravings  and 
mottos  had  been  ordered  at  the  moment  when  Caesar  was 
contemplating  the  murder  of  his  brother  Giovanni,  in  order  to 
take  from  him  this  sword  of  the  standard-bearer  of  the  Church. 

Following  the  insignia  of  his  office  came  the  hero  himself, 
crowned  with  the  lofty  ducal  berretto,  embroidered  in  pearls 
with  the  Holy  Dove.  He  approached  the  Pope,  removed 
the  berretto,  knelt  and  kissed  the  ruby  cross  on  the  shoe  of 
the  Pontifex  Maximus.  Cardinal  Monreale  handed  the 
Golden  Rose  to  His  Holiness.  It  was  a  marvel  of  the 
jeweller's  art ;  from  a  phial  concealed  under  the  gold  filigree 
petals  exhaled  the  perfume  of  innumerable  roses.  The  Pope 
stood,  and  in  a  voice  quivering  with  emotion  uttered  the 
words : — 


•AUT  CESAR  AUT  NIHIL'— 1500-1503       359 

1  Receive,  most  beloved  son,  this  rose,  symbol  of  the  joy 
of  the  two  Jerusalems,  earthly  and  heavenly,  of  the  two 
churches,  militant  and  triumphant ;  the  incorruptible  flower, 
the  delight  of  the  saints,  the  beauty  of  imperishable  crowns. 
May  thy  virtue  flower  in  Christ  as  this  rose,  which  blossoms 
on  the  shore  of  many  waters  !     Amen.' 

Caesar  received  the  mystic  rose  from  the  paternal  hands. 

It  was  more  than  the  old  man  could  bear.  To  the  disgust 
of  Burckhardt,  the  stolid  German  master  of  the  ceremonies, 
he  broke  through  the  prescribed  ceremonial;  bending  over 
his  son  he  stretched  out  his  trembling  hands,  his  face  con- 
tracting and  his  shoulders  shaking  as  he  murmured : — 

*  Cesare  !  Cesare  !  figlio  mio  I ' 

The  duke  handed  the  rose  to  the  Cardinal  di  San  Clemente, 
and  the  Pope  embraced  him  in  a  frenzy  of  joy,  laughing  and 
weeping. 

Again  the  trumpets  blared,  the  great  bell  of  St.  Peter's 
pealed,  and  was  answered  by  the  bells  of  all  the  churches  in 
the  city,  and  by  salvoes  of  artillery  from  the  Castle  of  St. 
Angelo.  In  the  Cortile  del  Belvedere  the  Romagnole  guard 
shouted : — 

*  Viva  Cesare  !     Viva  Cesare  / ' 

And  the  duke  came  out  on  the  balcony  to  greet  his  troops. 
Under  the  blue  sky,  in  the  brilliance  of  the  morning  sun, 
his  vesture  gold  and  purple,  the  Dove  of  the  Holy  Spirit  on 
his  head,  the  mystic  rose  in  his  hand,  to  the  people  he 
was  not  a  man,  but  a  god. 

XVI 

That  night  there  was  a  splendid  masked  procession  j  the 
triumph  of  Julius  Caesar  as  it  was  shown  on  the  sword  of 
the  Duke  of  Valentinois  and  Romagna.  He  himself  took 
his  seat  in  the  chariot  bearing  the  inscription  'Caesar  the 
divine';  his  head  was  crowned  with  laurel,  and  he  carried 
a  palm-branch  in  his  hand.  The  chariot  was  surrounded  by 
his  soldiers,  dressed  as  Roman  legionaries,  with  eagles  and 
javelins.  All  was  correctly  ordered  in  accordance  with 
descriptions  on  books  and  representations  in  monuments 
and  medals. 

Before  the  chariot  walked  a  man  in  the  long  white  robe 
of  an  Egyptian  hierophant,  carrying  a  banner  with  the  Borgia 


360  THE  FORERUNNER 

Bull,  purple  and  gilded;  the  bloody  Apis,  protecting  god  of 
Alexander  vi.  Boys  in  cloth  of  silver  sang  to  the  clashing 
of  timbrels : — 

1  Vive  diu  Bos  /  Vive  diu  Bos  !  Borgia  vive  I  *  Glory  to 
the  Bull !  Glory  to  the  Bull !  Glory  to  Borgia ! '  And  high 
above  the  crowd,  lighted  by  the  flare  of  torches,  swung  the 
image  of  the  beast,  fiery  as  the  rising  sun. 

In  the  crowd  was  Leonardo's  pupil,  Giovanni  Boltraffio, 
who  had  newly  arrived  from  Florence.  Looking  at  the 
purple  beast  he  remembered  the  words  in  the  Apocalypse: — 

'And  they  worshipped  the  Beast,  saying,  Who  is  like  unto 
the  Beast?  who  is  able  to  make  war  with  him? 

'And  I  saw  a  woman  sit  upon  a  scarlet-coloured  beast, 
full  of  names  of  blasphemy,  having  seven  heads  and  ten 
horns.  And  upon  her  forehead  was  a  name  written — 
"  Mystery,  Babylon  the  Great,  the  Mother  of  Harlots 
and  Abominations  of  the  Earth.'" 

Like  the  Seer  of  Patmos,  Giovanni  'wondered  with  a 
great  wonder.' 


BOOK    XI  II 

THE   PURPLE   BEAST — 1503 
•  The  beast  that  ascendeth  out  of  the  bottomless  pit.' — Rev.  xi.  7. 


Leonardo  was  threatened  with  a  lawsuit  touching  his 
vineyard  at  Fiesole,  a  slice  of  which  was  coveted  by  the 
neighbouring  contadino.  He  had  entrusted  the  matter  to 
Giovanni  Boltraffio ;  and  wishing  to  speak  to  him,  had  sent 
for  him  to  Rome.  On  his  way,  Giovanni  visited  Orvieto  to 
see  the  famous  frescoes  lately  painted  by  Luca  Signorelli 
in  the  Cappella  Nuova  of  the  cathedral.  One  of  these 
frescoes  showed  the  coming  of  Antichrist. 

Giovanni  was  greatly  impressed  by  the  countenance  of  the 
enemy  of  God.  It  was  not  evil ;  it  was  only  a  face  of  infinite 
grief.  In  the  clear  eyes,  with  their  troubled  gentleness,  was 
reflected  the  final  remorse  of  the  wisdom  which  has  renounced 
its  God.  The  figure  was  beautiful,  notwithstanding  the  satyr 
ears,  the  claw-like  fingers.  And,  as  occurs  sometimes  in 
delirium,  Giovanni  saw  behind  this  face  Another  terribly  like 
it,  a  divine  face,  which  he  dared  not  own  he  recognised. 

In  the  same  picture,  at  the  left,  was  seen  the  fall  of  Anti- 
christ. Soaring  upward  on  invisible  wings,  assuming  the 
character  of  the  Son  of  Man  coming  in  the  clouds  to  judge 
the  quick  and  the  dead,  he  was  hurled  back,  down  to  the  pit 
by  the  Archangel.  These  human  wings,  this  failing  flight 
reawakened  in  Giovanni  the  old  appalling  doubts  about 
Leonardo,  his  master. 

There  were  two  other  persons  in  the  chapel  with  Giovanni 
also  looking  at  the  frescoes ;  a  stout  monk,  and  a  long  lean 
man  of  uncertain  age  with  a  keen  hungry  face,  in  the  garb 
of  a  'goliard,'  as  the  itinerant  scholars  of  the  middle  ages 

361 


362  THE  FORERUNNER 

were  called.  They  made  friends  with  Giovanni,  and  the 
three  continued  their  journey  in  company.  The  monk  was 
a  German,  Tomaso  Schweinitz,  the  librarian  of  an  Augustinian 
monastery  at  Nuremberg;  he  was  going  to  Rome  about 
certain  disputed  benefices.  His  companion  was  also  German, 
Hans  Platter,  from  Salzburg;  he  was  acting  partly  as 
Schweinitz's  secretary,  partly  as  his  jester,  partly  as  his 
groom.  On  the  journey  the  three  discussed  ecclesiastical 
affairs.  Calmly  and  with  scientific  acumen,  Schweinitz 
demonstrated  the  absurdity  of  imputing  infallibility  to  the 
Pope,  and  prophesied  that  within  twenty  years  Germany  would 
shake  off  the  intolerable  yoke  of  the  Romish  church. 

'This  man  will  never  die  for  his  creed,' thought  Giovanni, 
looking  at  the  full-fed  round  face  of  the  Nuremberg  monk ; 
*he  will  not  face  the  fire  like  Savonarola;  yet,  who  knows? 
he  may  be  more  dangerous  to  the  church.' 

One  evening  soon  after  their  arrival  in  Rome,  Giovanni 
met  Hans  Platter  in  the  square  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the 
German  took  him  to  the  neighbouring  Vicolo  de'  Sinibaldi, 
where  among  a  number  of  foreign  taverns  was  a  small  wine- 
cellar  with  the  sign  of  the  Silver  Hedgehog.  Its  host  was 
a  Czech  of  the  Hussite  heresy,  Yan  Khromy,  who  enter- 
tained with  his  choicest  wines  all  free-thinkers  or  enemies 
of  the  papacy — such  were  indeed  daily  increasing,  and 
preparing  the  way  for  the  great  reformation  of  the  church. 

In  an  inner  room,  where  only  the  elect  were  admitted,  was 
a  fairly  numerous  company ;  and  at  the  head  of  the  table 
sat  Schweinitz,  leaning  back  against  a  cask,  his  fat  hands 
resting  on  his  paunch,  his  face  bloated  and  stupid.  Now 
and  then  he  raised  his  glass  level  with  the  candle-flame 
admiring  the  pale  gold  of  the  Rhenish ;  apparently  he  had 
already  drunk  more  than  enough. 

Fra  Martino,  a  violent  little  monk,  was  pouring  out  vials 
of  wrath  against  the  extortions  of  the  Curia  Romana. 

*  Better  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  brigands  than  of  the 
prelates  here !  Daily  pillage !  Give  to  the  Penitenziere,  to 
the  Protonotary,  to  the  Cubiculary,  to  the  door-keeper,  to 
the  groom,  to  the  cook,  to  the  man  who  empties  the  slops  of 
her  reverence,  the  cardinal's  concubine;  Lord,  forgive  us! 
Tis  like  the  song : — 

'  "  New  Pharisees  they, 
The  Lord  they  betray  ! M 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  363 

Then  Hans  Platter  rose,  his  face  grave,  his  voice  drawling, 
and  said : — 

'  The  cardinals  went  to  their  lord  the  Pope  and  inquired — 
"  What  shall  we  do  to  be  saved  ?  "  And  Alexander  answered  : 
"Why  do  ye  ask  of  me?  Is  it  not  written  in  the  Law? 
'Love  silver  and  gold  with  all  thine  heart  and  with  all  thy 
mind  and  with  all  thy  strength,  and  love  thy  rich  neighbour 
as  thyself.  Do  this  and  ye  shall  live.'"  And  the  Pope  took 
his  seat  upon  his  throne  and  said :  "  Blessed  are  they  who 
have,  for  they  shall  see  my  face.  Blessed  are  they  who  bring 
offerings,  for  they  shall  be  called  my  sons.  Blessed  are  they 
who  come  in  the  name  of  gold  and  silver,  for  of  them  is  the 
Curia  Romana.  But  woe  unto  you,  ye  who  present  your- 
selves with  empty  hands  !  It  were  better  that  a  millstone 
were  hanged  about  your  necks  and  ye  were  cast  into  the 
depth  of  the  sea."  And  the  cardinals  answered :  "  All  that 
thou  sayest  we  will  do."  And  the  Pope  said:  "Lo,  I  set 
before  you  an  example,  that  ye  may  spoil  the  people,  even 
as  I  have  spoiled  the  living  and  the  dead."' 

This  sally  provoked  great  mirth.  Next  Otto  Marburg  the 
organ-master,  a  handsome  old  man,  with  a  boyish  smile,  read 
a  satire  just  printed  and  already  handed  about  all  over  the 
city.  It  was  in  the  form  of  an  anonymous  letter  to  Paolo 
Savelli,  a  rich  noble  who  had  fled  to  the  emperor  from  the 
persecutions  of  the  Church.  A  long  catalogue  was  set  forth 
of  the  crimes  and  abominations  in  the  house  of  the  pontiff, 
beginning  with  simony,  and  ending  with  Caesar's  fratricide 
and  the  pope's  criminal  amours  with  his  own  daughter. 
The  epistle  concluded  with  a  passionate  appeal  to  all  princes 
and  rulers  in  Europe,  calling  on  them  to  unite  and  destroy 
this  nest  of  assassins,  these  filthy  reptiles  disguised  in  the 
semblance  of  men ;  and  asseverated  that  the  reign  of  Anti- 
christ had  commenced,  for  of  a  truth  the  faith  of  the  church 
of  God  had  never  had  such  foes  as  Pope  Alexander  vi.  and 
Caesar  his  son. 

A  discussion  now  arose  as  to  whether,  in  very  truth,  the 
Pope  were  Antichrist.  Otto  Marburg  said  No;  not  he 
but  Caesar,  who,  it  was  clear,  intended  to  be  Alexander's 
successor.  Fra  Martino  argued  that  Antichrist  would  be 
an  incorporeal  phantom ;  for,  as  said  St.  Cyril  of  Alexandria, 
1  The  Son  of  Perdition,  called  Antichrist,  is  none  other  than 
Satan  himself.' 


i 


3r,4  THE  FORERUNNER 

Schweinitz  shook  his  head  ar.d  quoted  St.  John  Chryso- 
stom,  who  said,  *  Who  is  this?  Is  he  Satan?  By  no  means, 
but  a  man  who  shall  have  inherited  Satan's  power,  for  there 
are  two  beings  in  him  :  one  human,  the  other  devilish.  And 
he  shall  be  the  son  of  a  virgin,  which  could  never  have  been 
said  of  Alexander  or  of  Caesar.' 

But  Schweinitz  further  quoted  from  Ephraim  of  Syria: 
'The  devil  shall  seduce  a  virgin  of  the  tribe  of  Dan,  and  she 
shall  conceive  and  bring  forth.' 

All  crowded  round  him  with  questions  and  doubts;  but 
imposing  silence  with  his  finger,  and  quoting  from  Jerome, 
Cyprian,  Irenoeus,  and  other  of  the  fathers,  he  spoke  further 
of  the  coming  of  Antichrist. 

His  face  shall  be  as  the  face  of  a  were-wolf,  yet  to  many  it 
shall  seem  like  the  face  of  Christ.  And  he  shall  do  marvel- 
lous things.  He  shall  bid  the  sea  be  still,  and  the  sun 
turn  into  darkness;  and  the  mountains  remove,  and  the 
stones  become  bread.  And  he  shall  feed  the  hungry, 
and  heal  the  sick,  and  the  deaf,  and  the  blind,  and  the 
feeble-kneed. 

*  Ah,  the  abominable  dog ! '  cried  Fra  Martino  beside  him- 
self, and  thumping  his  fist  on  the  table ;  '  but  who  will  believe 
in  him  ?  Fra  Tomaso,  I  think  that  not  even  babes  could  be 
taken  by  his  deceits  ! ' 

'They  will  believe.  Many  will  believe,'  said  Schweinitz 
shaking  his  head.  'He  shall  lead  them  astray  by  the  mask 
of  sanctity.  For  he  shall  mortify  his  flesh,  live  chastely,  con- 
temning the  love  of  women;  he  shall  taste  no  meat,  and  shall 
be  loving  not  only  to  men  but  to  all  living  creatures  which 
have  breath.  And  like  the  wild  partridge  he  shall  utter  a 
strange  call  and  shall  deceive  with  his  voice;  "Come  unto  me," 
he  shall  say,  "  all  ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden  and  I 
will  give  you  rest.'  ' 

'Then,'  interrupted  Giovanni  with  bated  breath,  'who  shall 
recognise,  who  unmask  him  ?' 

The  monk  fixed  on  the  youth  a  profound  and  scrutinising 
regard  and  answered :  'It  will  be  impossible  for  men,  but  not  for 
God.  Even  the  saints  shall  not  know  to  distinguish  the  light 
from  the  darkness.  And  there  shall  be  weariness  unto  all 
nations,  and  confounding  such  as  there  was  not  from  the 
beginning  of  the  world.  And  they  shall  say  to  the  mountains, 
11  Fall  on  us,  and  to  the  hills,  cover  us,"  and  shall  faint  for  fear 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST-1503  365 

and  for  expectation  of  the  woes  which  are  coming  on  the  earth, 
for  the  powers  of  heaven  shall  be  shaken.  Then  he  who 
impiously  sitteth  on  the  throne,  in  the  very  Temple  of  the  Most 
High,  shall  say,  "  O  faithless  generation  !  Ye  ask  for  a  sign  and 
a  sign  shall  be  given  unto  you.  Ye  shall  behold  me,  the  Son 
of  Man,  coming  in  the  clouds  to  judge  both  the  quick  and 
the  dead."  And  he  shall  take  great  wings,  formed  by  devilish 
cunning,  and  shall  soar  into  the  sky  amid  thunders  and 
lightnings,  surrounded  by  his  disciples  in  the  semblance  of 
angels.' 

Giovanni  listened,  pale  as  death,  his  eyes  terror-struck;  he 
remembered  the  broad  folds  of  the  raiment  of  Antichrist  in 
Luca  Signorelli's  fresco ;  and  he  remembered  also  the  folds 
flapping  in  the  wind  on  Leonardo's  shoulders  as  he  stood 
upon  the  precipice  edge  on  the  lonely  summit  of  Monte 
Albano. 

At  this  moment,  from  the  larger  room,  whither  Hans 
Platter  had  fled  from  the  too  serious  discussion,  came  cries 
and  the  laughter  of  girls,  the  sound  of  running  to  and  fro,  the 
noise  of  overturned  chairs  and  broken  glasses — evidently  Hans 
romping  with  the  servant-maids.  Presently  to  the  jangling  of 
strings  rang  out  the  old  song : — 

'Virgin  of  the  wine-cellar, 
Sweet  and  fragrant  Rosa, 
"  Ave  !  Ave  !  "  I  must  sing 
Virgo  gloriosa. 

A  sober  knave  is  he  our  host 
With  his  fox's  mask,  Sir. 
More  than  Holy  Church,  I  boast, 
Do  I  love  his  cask,  Sir  I 
From  the  wiles  of  Cypris  fair 
And  from  Cupid's  darts,  oh  ! 
Cowls  nor  tonsures  can  avail 
To  defend  our  hearts,  oh  1 
For  a  solitary  kiss 
I  'd  go  to  the  block,  Sir ; 
Fill  me  full  of  wine,  Monk, 
Or  I  '11  thee  unfrock,  Sir  1 
Holy  fathers  fear  I  not — 
It  is  troth  they  say,  Sir, 
Gold  in  Rome  has  but  to  chink 
And  the  laws  give  way,  Sir. 
Rome  !  the  robbers'  shrine  is, 
Thorny  road  to  Hades — 
And  the  Bishop's  wine  is 
Made  to  toast  the  ladies ! 


366  THE  FORERUNNER 

Come  then,  wench,  and  kiss  us. 
Dum  vinum  potamus, 
To  Bacchus  on  Ilissus — 
7>  Dcum  Laudamus.  * 

Thomas  Schweinitz  listened,  and  his  fat  visage  expanded 
in  a  beatific  grin 

II 

At  the  hospital  of  San  Spirito  in  Rome  Leonardo  had 
returned  to  his  anatomical  studies,  assisted  by  Giovanni. 

Noticing  his  pupil's  low  spirits,  and  wishing  to  divert  him, 
the  Master  one  day  proposed  to  take  him  to  the  Vatican. 
The  Pope  had  convened  an  assembly  of  learned  men  to 
discuss  the  boundaries  of  Spanish  and  Portuguese  territory 
in  the  new  world,  with  regard  to'  which  decision  had  been 
requested  from  the  head  of  the  church.  Curiosity  prompted 
Giovanni  to  accept  the  invitation.  Accordingly  the  two  set 
out  for  the  Vatican. 

Passing  through  the  Hall  of  the  Popes,  where  A*exander 
had  invested  Caesar  with  the  Golden  Rose,  they  entered 
the  inner  chambers  (now  called  the  Apartamenti  Borgia). 
The  arches  and  vaulting,  and  the  mural  spaces  between 
the  arches  had  all  been  decorated  by  Pinturicchio  with 
brilliant  frescoes — scenes  from  the  New  Testament,  from  the 
lives  of  the  saints;  scenes  also  from  the  pagan  mysteries. 
Osiris  was  seen  at  his  espousals  with  Isis,  teaching  men 
to  till  the  ground,  to  gather  fruits,  to  plant  the  vine; 
he  was  shown  slain  of  men,  rising  again,  leaving  the  earth, 
reappearing  as  the  White  Bull,  the  blameless  Apis.  However 
strange  this  deification  of  the  Bull  of  the  House  of  Borgia 
might  seem  in  the  chambers  of  the  High  Priest  of  Christen- 
dom, the  all-pervading  joy  of  life  harmonised  the  two  sets  of 
subjects,  the  sacred  and  profane,  the  Christian  and  the  pagan 
mysteries,  the  son  of  Jupiter  and  the  Son  of  Jehovah.  In 
each  picture  slender  cypresses  bent  before  the  breeze,  among 
the  broad  hills  proper  to  the  painter's  native  Umbria ;  birds 
played  at  the  vernal  sports  of  love ;  St.  Elizabeth  embracing 
the  Virgin  cried,  'Blessed  is  the  fruit  of  thy  womb';  by  her 
side  a  boy  was  teaching  a  dog  to  stand  on  his  hind  legs; 
in  the  Espousals  of  Osiris  and  Isis  just  such  another  boy  was 
riding  naked  on  a  sacred  goose.  The  same  spirit  of  delight 
breathed  everywhere ;  in  the  rich  saloons,  flower-garlanded ; 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  3G7 

in  the  angels,  with  their  censers  and  crosses;  in  the  dancing, 
goat  footed  fauns  carrying  thyrsi  and  baskets  of  fruit ;  in  the 
mystic  Bull,  the  purple  Beast,  who,  radiant  as  the  morning 
sun,  seemed  to  pour  forth  the  joy  of  living. 

'What  is  this ? '  questioned  Giovanni  of  himself,  'is  it 
blasphemy,  or  a  childlike  artlessness?  Is  not  the  sacred 
emotion  on  the  face  of  Elizabeth  the  same  as  that  on  the  face 
of  Isis  ?  Is  there  not  the  same  prayerful  ecstasy  on  the  face 
of  Pope  Alexander,  bending  the  knee  before  the  rising  Lord, 
and  on  the  countenance  of  the  Egyptian  priest  receiving  the 
sun-god  slain  of  men  and  risen  again  in  the  shape  of  Apis  ? 
And  this  god  before  whom  the  people  bow,  singing  hymns  of 
praise  and  burning  incense  on  his  altar,  this  heraldic  Bull  of 
the  Borgias,  transformed  into  a  Golden  Calf — is  nothing  else 
than  the  Roman  pontiff  himself,  whom  the  servile  poets  have 
called  a  god.' 

Csesare  magna  fuit,  nunc  Roma  est  maxima  •  Sextus 
Regnat  Alexander,  ille  vir,  iste  Deus. 

This  identification  of  the  God  and  the  Beast  seemed  to 
Giovanni  absurd,  yet  awful. 

As  he  examined  the  magnificent  paintings  with  which  the 
walls  were  adorned,  he  listened  to  the  talk  of  the  prelates  and 
great  men  who  filled  the  saloons,  and  waited  for  the  Pope. 

*  Whence  come  you,  Messer  Bertrando?'  asked  Cardinal 
d'Arborea  of  the  envoy  from  the  court  of  Ferrara. 

'  From  the  cathedral,  Monsignore.' 

'How  is  His  Holiness?    Tired?' 

1  Not  at  all.  He  chanted  as  well  as  could  possibly  be. 
There  is  in  his  voice  something  so  holy,  so  majestic,  so 
angelic,  that  I  could  have  imagined  myself  in  heaven.  When 
he  lifted  the  cup,  not  I  only,  but  many,  could  scarce  restrain 
their  tears.' 

'Of  what  disorder  did  Cardinal  Miquele  die?'  asked  the 
French  ambassador  abruptly. 

'Of  drinking  something  disagreeable,'  answered  Don 
Juan  Lopez  dryly.  The  majority  at  Alexander's  court  were 
Spaniards  like  himself. 

'  They  say,'  observed  Bertrando,  '  that  on  the  day  after  the 
cardinal's  death  His  Holiness  declined  to  receive  the  Spanish 
ambassador  on  account  of  his  grief.' 


3G3  THE  FORERUNNER 

All  exchanged  glances.  There  were  covert  meanings  in 
these  remarks.  The  Pope's  grief  had  been  connected  with 
counting  the  dead  man's  money  which  proved  less  than  he 
had  expected;  and  the  unwholesome  drink  was  the  Borgia 
poison,  a  sweet  white  powder  which  killed  slowly.  Alexander 
had  invented  this  easy  method  of  acquiring  money.  He  knew 
the  incomes  of  all  the  cardinals,  and  when  he  wanted  money 
would  despatch  the  wealthiest  of  them  to  the  other  world, 
and  declare  himself  the  heir.  He  fattened  them  for  the  table. 
The  German,  Johann  Burckhardt,  master  of  the  ceremonies, 
frequently  noted  deaths  of  prelates  in  his  diary,  adding  the 
pregnant  laconicism,  Biberat  calicem—1  He  had  drunk  of  the 
cup.' 

'Is  it  true,  Monsignore,'  asked  Don  Pedro  Carranca,  a 
chamberlain,  'that  Cardinal  Monreale  is  taken  ill?' 

'  Really  ?     What  ails  him  ? '  cried  d'Arborea  alarmed. 

'Vomiting.' 

'  Dio  mio  1  Dio  mio !  the  fourth ! '  sighed  the  poor 
cardinal.     'Orsini,  Ferrari,  Miquele,  and  now  Monreale! 

'The  waters  of  Tiber  must  be  bad  for  your  Eminences,' 
said  Messer  Bertrando  slyly. 

'One  after  the  other!  one  after  the  other!'  sighed 
d'Arborea ;  '  to-day  strong  and  well,  to-morrow ' 

All  became  silent.  From  the  next  room  entered  a  fresh 
crowd  of  courtiers  marshalled  by  Don  Rodriguez  Borgia,  the 
Pope's  nephew.     A  murmur  ran  through  the  room. 

'  The  Holy  Father  !     The  Holy  Father !  ■ 

The  crowd  parted,  the  doors  were  thrown  open,  and  into 
the  audience-chamber  came  Pope  Alexander  vi. 

Ill 

He  had  been  singularly  handsome  in  his  youth.  It  was 
said  then  that  he  had  only  to  look  at  a  woman  to  inspire  her 
with  the  wildest  passion,  as  if  in  his  eyes  a  force  was 
concentred  which  drew  women  like  a  magnet.  Even  now 
his  features,  though  blunted  and  coarsened  by  age  and  fat, 
retained  an  imposing  beauty  of  line.  His  skin  was  bronzed, 
his  head  bald,  with  a  few  tufts  of  grey  hair  at  the  nape.  The 
nose  was  large  and  aquiline,  the  chin  receding,  the  eyes 
vivacious.  The  full  protruding  lips  showed  sensuality,  yet  had 
something  simple  and  naive  in  their  expression. 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  3G9 

Giovanni  could  see  nothing  terrible  or  cruel  in  his  face. 
Alexander  Borgia  possessed  in  the  highest  degree  the  gift  of 
taste;  he  had  that  attractive  exterior  which  made  whatever 
he  said  or  did  appear  said  or  done  in  the  only  right  way. 

'The  Pope  is  seventy,'  said  the  ambassadors,  'but  he  grows 
daily  younger.  His  heaviest  cares  last  but  twenty-four  hours. 
His  temperament  is  cheerful;  everything  to  which  he  puts 
his  hand  turns  out  well.  He  thinks  of  nothing  but  the 
reputation  and  the  happiness  of  his  children.' 

The  Borgias  were  descended  from  Moors  of  Castile;  it  was, 
indeed,  not  difficult  to  recognise  in  the  Pope  the  bronze  skin, 
the  full  scarlet  lips,  the  flashing  eyes  of  the  African  Arab. 

'He  could  not  have  a  more  appropriate  background,' 
thought  Giovanni,  'than  these  pictures  of  the  joys  and 
triumphs  of  Apis,  the  ancient  Egyptian  Bull.' 

Indeed  the  septuagenarian  Pope  seemed,  in  the  vigour  of 
his  health,  like  enough  to  his  own  heraldic  Beast,  the  sun-god, 
the  god  of  merriment,  lubricity,  and  generation. 

As  he  entered,  he  was  in  conversation  with  a  Jew,  the 
goldsmith  Salomone  da  Sessa,  who  had  engraved  the  Triumph 
of  Caesar  on  the  sword  of  the  gonfaloniere.  He  had  also 
pleased  the  Pope  by  so  exquisitely  cutting  an  emerald  with  a 
figure  of  Venus  that  Alexander  had  had  it  set  on  the  cross 
which  he  used  when  blessing  the  people  on  solemn  festivals, 
so  that  when  he  kissed  the  crucifix  he  should  kiss  also  the 
Goddess  of  Love.  In  spite  of  his  crimes,  Alexander  was 
not  impious ;  he  was  really  devout,  particularly  reverential  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  whom  he  considered  his  gracious 
Mediatress  at  the  throne  of  the  Most  High.  He  was 
ordering  a  lamp  now  of  Salomone,  an  offering  he  had  vowed 
to  St.  Maria  del  Popolo,  in  gratitude  for  the  recovery  from 
illness  of  Madonna  Lucrezia  his  daughter. 

Seating  himself  at  the  window,  the  Pope  inspected  some 
precious  stones;  he  was  passionately  fond  of  jewels.  With 
long  shapely  fingers  he  touched  the  crystals  gently,  his 
thick  lips  parted  in  a  smile ;  especially  he  admired  a  large 
chrysoprase  —  darker  than  an  emerald,  with  mysterious 
sparkles  of  gold,  green,  and  purple.  Then  he  called  for  a 
casket  of  pearls  from  his  treasure-ch  est.  Whenever  he  opened 
this  casket  he  thought  of  his  beloved  daughter,  who  was 
herself  like  a  pearl.  He  called  the  envoy  from  Ferrara, 
whose  duke,  Alfonso  d'Este,  was  his  son-in-law. 
2  A 


37o  THE  FORERUNNER 

1  Take  heed,  Bertrando,  that  you  do  not  leave  Rome  till  I 
have  given  you  a  present  for  Madonna  Lucrezia.  You 
mustn't  leave  the  old  uncle  with  empty  hands.'  (He  had 
sufficient  care  for  appearances  sometimes  to  call  Lucrezia 
his  niece.) 

Taking  a  priceless  pink  Indian  pearl,  the  size  of  a  hazel- 
nut, from  the  casket,  he  held  it  up  to  the  light  and  gloated 
over  it.  He  pictured  it  on  Lucrezia's  white  bosom;  he 
hesitated  whether  he  should  give  it  to  her  or  to  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  But  reminding  himself  that  it  was  sinful  to  take 
away  what  had  been  vowed  to  Heaven,  he  handed  the 
pearl  to  Salomone,  and  bade  him  set  it  in  a  lamp  between 
the  chrysoprase  and  the  carbuncle,  gift  from  the  Sultan. 

*  Bertrando/  he  turned  again  to  the  ambassador,  'when 
you  see  the  duchess,  tell  her  from  me  to  keep  well,  and  to 
pray  earnestly  to  the  Queen  of  Heaven.  Tell  her  we  are  in 
the  best  of  health,  and  give  her  our  apostolic  blessing.  This 
evening  I  will  send  you  the  little  gift  for  her.' 

The  Spanish  ambassador  exclaimed,  drawing  nearer : — 

'Of  a  truth,  I  have  never  seen  such  richness  of  pearls  !' 

'Yes,' said  the  Pope  complacently,  'I  have  a  fine  collection. 
I  have  been  making  it  for  twenty  years.  My  daughter  is  very 
fond  of  pearls.'  He  laughed.  *  She  knows  what  suits  her, 
the  little  rogue  ! ' 

Then  after  a  pause  he  added  solemnly,  'When  I  die, 
Lucrezia  shall  have  the  best  pearls  in  Italy  ! ' 

And  plunging  his  hands  in  them  he  let  them  trickle 
through  his  fingers,  delighting  in  their  soft  pale  splendour 
and  smooth,  satin-like  texture. 

'AH  for  her!  All  for  her,  our  delicious  daughter,'  he 
repeated  in  a  low  hoarse  voice. 

And  suddenly  a  fire  sparkled  in  his  eyes ;  and  Giovanni, 
remembering  whispers  of  the  monstrous  passion  of  the  aged 
Borgia  for  this  Lucrezia,  froze  at  heart  with  horror  and 
shame. 

IV 

Just  then  a  page  announced  that,  according  to  His 
Holiness's  order,  Caesar  was  waiting  in  the  next  saloon. 
Alexander  had  summoned  him  on  a  matter  of  urgent 
importance:  the  French  king  had  expressed  disapproval  of 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  371 

Valentinois'  designs  against  Florence,  and  had  charged  the 
Pope  with  countenancing  them. 

After  listening  to  the  page's  announcement,  Alexander 
glanced  at  the  French  ambassador,  drew  him  adroitly  aside, 
left  him  (accidentally,  apparently)  by  the  door  of  the  room 
where  Caesar  was  waiting,  and  passing  through  the  door,  left 
it  (accidentally  again)  slightly  ajar,  so  that  the  ambassador 
and  those  about  him  should  hear  all  that  passed  between 
father  and  son. 

Soon  vehement  reproaches  were  audible.  Caesar  spoke 
calmly  and  respectfully,  but  the  old  man,  stamping  his  foot, 
cried  furiously : — 

*  Out  of  my  sight !     Choke,  son  of  a  cur  !  son  of  a  harlot ! 

' Dio  mw,  do  you  hear?'  whispered  the  Frenchman  to 
Messer  Antonio  Giustiniani,  the  Venetian  ambassador,  'he 
will  strike  him  ! ' 

The  Venetian  shrugged  his  shoulders.  If  it  came  to  blows, 
he  thought  the  son  more  likely  to  stab  the  father,  than  the 
father  the  son.  Since  the  murder  of  the  Duke  of  Candia, 
the  Pope  had  feared  Caesar;  his  paternal  pride  and  doting 
fondness  had  become  mixed  with  a  superstitious  terror.  All 
remembered  how  Perotto,  the  youngest  of  the  chamberlains, 
had  taken  refuge  from  Caesar  under  the  folds  of  the  papal 
mantle,  and  Caesar  had  poniarded  him  on  the  pontiffs  breast, 
splashing  Alexander  with  his  blood.  Giustiniani  guessed 
also  that  the  present  dispute  was  a  feint,  got  up  for  the 
Frenchman's  benefit,  to  persuade  him  that  if  the  duke  had 
designs  against  Florence  the  Pope  was  innocent  of  them. 
Giustiniani  believed  that  the  two  always  supported  each 
other;  the  father  never  doing  what  he  said,  the  son  never 
saying  what  he  did. 

Having  threatened,  cursed,  and  all  but  excommunicated 
his  son,  the  Pope  returned  to  the  hall  of  audience  still 
trembling,  panting,  and  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his 
empurpled  face.  Nevertheless,  in  his  eyes  shone  a  gleam  of 
amusement.  Again  he  called  the  Frenchman,  and  this  time 
drew  him  towards  the  Cortile  del  Belvedere. 

*  Your  Holiness  knows,'  began  the  envoy,  much  distressed, 
*I  had  no  desire  to  breed  discord - 

'What?  did  you  hear?'  cried  the  Pope,  seeming  much 
astonished.  And  without  giving  him  time  to  think,  he 
took  him  familiarly  by  the  chin  with  finger  and  thumb  (a 


37a  THE  FORERUNNER 

sign  of  great  amity),  and  spoke  impetuously  of  his  devotion 
to  the  Most  Christian  King,  and  of  the  extraordinary  purity 
of  Caesar's  motives.  The  Frenchman  was  bewildered,  .and 
though  he  had  irrefragable  proof  of  the  deception,  felt  disposed 
rather  to  deny  the  evidence  of  his  own  eyes  than  to  disbelieve 
that  voice,  those  eyes,  those  lips.  Indeed,  Alexander  always 
lied  like  one  inspired.  He  never  pre-arranged  what  he  was 
going  to  say,  but  lied  as  artlessly,  as  innocently  as  a  woman 
in  love.  He  had  practised  this  art  so  long  that  he  had 
attained  perfection  in  it;  he  was  an  artist  carried  away  by  his 
imagination. 


At  this  moment  his  secret  body-servant  approached  the  pope 
and  whispered  to  him.  Alexander  with  an  anxious  air  passed 
into  the  next  room,  and  thence  through  a  concealed  door  into 
a  narrow  vaulted  passage  where  Cardinal  Monreale's  cook  was 
awaiting  him. 

He  brought  news  that  the  quantity  of  poison  had  been 
insufficient  and  the  cardinal  was  recovering.  However,  after 
minutely  catechising  the  cook,  the  Pope  convinced  himself 
that  his  victim  would  die  in  two  or  three  months'  time,  which 
would  be  all  the  better  as  averting  suspicion. 

*  It  seems  a  pity,  too  ! '  thought  Alexander.  'The  poor  old 
man  was  amusing  and  a  good  Christian.' 

Wishing  he  could  have  got  the  money  in  some  other  way, 
he  sighed  and  returned  to  the  audience  hall.  In  the  adjoining 
chamber,  sometimes  used  as  a  refectory,  he  saw  a  table  laid 
and  felt  hungry.  Deferring  the  business  matters,  he  invited  the 
company  to  dinner.  The  table  was  ornamented  with  white 
lilies,  the  flower  of  the  Annunciation,  a  favourite  with  the 
pope,  who  said  it  reminded  him  of  Madonna  Lucrezia.  The 
dishes  were  not  numerous,  for  the  pope  was  plain  and  sparing 
in  his  diet.  Giovanni  listened  to  the  talk  among  the 
chamberlains. 

Don  Juan  Lopez,  the  'laterculensis,' spoke  of  the  late  dispute 
between  father  and  son,  and  defended  Caesar  as  if  he  had  no 
suspicion  that  the  whole  affair  had  been  a  comedy.  The  rest 
agreed  with  him  and  lauded  Caesar  to  the  skies. 

'Ah  no,'  said  the  Pope  shaking  his  head  with  reproachful 
tenderness,  'you  don't  know  what  he  is.  A  day  never  passes 
in  which  I  am  net  in  terror  about  him  lest  he  should  commit 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  373 

some  new  imprudence.  He  will  end  by  breaking  his  neck  and 
bringing  us  all  to  ruin.' 

His  eyes  sparkled  with  paternal  pride. 

'But  what  makes  Caesar  like  this?'  he  went  on;  'whom 
does  he  take  after?  You  know  me,  a  simple  and  guileless  old 
man ;  what  I  have  in  my  heart,  that  comes  from  my  tongue  ! 
But  Cassar,  Lord  knows,  keeps  counsel ;  always  hiding  some- 
thing. Believe  me,  sirs,  sometimes  I  reprove  and  scold  at 
him,  and  at  the  same  time  I  have  terror  in  my  soul.  That's 
it.  I  am  afraid  of  my  own  son !  He  is  polite — ay,  too 
polite ;  and  then  of  a  sudden  he  looks  me  a  look  like  a  dagger 
in  my  heart' 

The  guests,  however,  defended  Caesar  still  more  warmly. 

*  Oh,  I  know  !  I  know  ! '  said  the  Pope,  '  you  love  him  like 
your  own,  and  won't  let  us  abuse  him.' 

The  room  was  suffocatingly  hot,  and  Alexander's  head  swam, 
not  from  wine,  but  from  the  intoxication  of  his  son's  glory. 
They  all  rose  and  went  forth  on  the  balcony  which  gave  on 
the  Cortile  del  Belvedere.  The  air  was  pure  and  delicious ; 
below,  the  grooms  were  bringing  fiery  mares  and  ardent 
stallions  out  of  the  stables. 

Surrounded  by  the  cardinals  and  dignitaries,  the  Pope  stood 
watching  the  horses,  long  silent.  Gradually  his  face  clouded, 
for  he  remembered  Lucrezia.  Her  image  rose  before  him ; 
her  blue  eyes,  the  pale  gold  of  her  hair,  her  rosy  lips  a  little 
full  like  his  own;  pure  and  dainty  as  a  pearl;  docile  and 
gentle ;  in  the  midst  of  evil,  knowing  it  not ;  passionless  and 
unsullied.  Why  had  he  consented  to  her  marriage  with  Alfonso 
d'Este,  the  Duke  of  Ferrara? 

Sighing  heavily,  with  drooping  head,  as  if  for  the  first  time 
the  burden  of  age  had  fallen  on  his  shoulders,  he  led  the  com- 
pany back  to  the  Hall  of  Audience. 

VI 

Globes,  maps,  compasses  were  there  lying  ready  for  the 
marking  out  of  the  meridian,  which  was  to  pass  over  a  point 
three  hundred  and  seventy  Portuguese  leagues  to  the  south  of 
the  Azores  and  the  island  of  Cape  de  Verde.  This  point  was 
chosen  because,  according  to  Columbus,  the  'navel  of  the 


374  THE  FORERUNNER 

earth'  was  there;  the  pear-like  projection,  the  mountain 
reaching  to  the  lunar  sphere,  which  he  had  postulated  on 
account  of  the  deviation  in  his  compass. 

From  the  extreme  western  point  of  Portugal  on  the  one  side 
and  the  coasts  of  Brazil  on  the  other,  even  distances  were 
to  be  measured  to  the  proposed  line.  Then  shipmasters  and 
astronomers  were  bidden  to  calculate  how  many  days  of  sail- 
ing were  equal  to  these  distances.  The  Pope  offered  prayer, 
blessed  the  globe,  and  dipping  a  brush  in  red  ink,  drew  across 
the  Atlantic  from  the  North  Pole  to  the  South  the  broad  line 
which  was  to  secure  peace.  All  islands  and  lands  to  the  east 
of  this  line  were  to  belong  to  Spain,  all  to  the  west,  to 
Portugal.  Thus  by  one  motion  of  his  hand  he  parted  the 
globe  in  halves  and  divided  it  between  the  Christian  nations. 
At  this  moment  Alexander  seemed  grand  and  majestic  to 
Giovanni ;  full  of  the  consciousness  of  his  power,  the  world- 
swaying  Caesar-Pope,  centre  of  two  kingdoms — the  earthly 
and  the  heavenly. 

That  same  evening  in  his  apartments  in  the  Vatican,  Caesar 
Borgia  gave  a  feast  to  His  Holiness  and  the  Sacred  College  of 
Cardinals,  at  which  were  present  ■  fifty  of  the  fairest  and  most 
famous  of  the  Roman  cortigiane  oneste\  called  officially 
1  meretricts  honestce  nuncupates* 

Thus  was  celebrated  that  memorable  day  in  the  annals  of 
the  Church,  which  had  been  marked  by  the  partition  of  the 
globe. 

Leonardo  was  present  at  the  supper  and  witnessed  every- 
thing. Invitations  to  such  feasts  were  great  favours,  and  could 
not  be  declined.     On  returning  home  he  said  to  Giovanni : — 

*  In  every  man  there  is  a  god  and  a  beast,  coupled.' 
Going  on  with  his  anatomical  drawing,  he  added — • 

*  Persons  with  base  minds  and  unworthy  passions  do  not 
merit  so  complex  and  beautiful  a  physical  structure  as  others, 
of  high  intelligence  and  lofty  thoughts.  'Twere  enough  if 
they  had  a  bag  with  two  openings,  one  to  receive,  the  other 
to  eject  food;  for,  in  plain  fact,  they  be  no  more  than  a 
passage  for  nourishment.' 

Next  morning  Giovanni  found  the  Master  at  work  on  his 
painting  lSan  Gerolamo  nel  deserto.'  In  a  savage  den,  the 
recluse,  kneeling  and  gazing  at  the  Crucified,  beats  his  breast  so 
vehemently  that  the  lion  at  his  feet  looks  into  his  eyes,  and  has 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  375 

opened  his  jaws  in  a  long  and  pitiful  moan,  as  if  in  compassion 
for  his  master. 

Boltraffio  remembered  that  other  picture,  white  Leda 
embraced  by  the  swan,  the  Goddess  consumed  by  the  flames 
of  Savonarola's  pyre.  And  as  so  often  before,  he  asked 
himself  again  which  of  these  opposed  conceptions  was  dearest 
to  the  heart  of  the  master?  or  could  the  two  be  equally  dear? 

VII 

Summer  came.  Putrid  fever  of  the  Pontine  marshes,  the 
'malaria,'  began  to  rage  in  the  city;  at  the  end  of  July 
there  were  daily  deaths  among  those  about  the  Pope.  He 
himself  appeared  troubled  and  sad ;  but  it  was  less  the  fear 
of  death  which  was  oppressing  him,  than  the  absence  of  his 
idolised  Lucrezia.  He  had  before  now  had  several  attacks 
of  fierce  desire,  blind  and  dumb,  like  madness,  terrifying 
even  to  himself;  he  fancied  that  if  he  did  not  satisfy  them 
at  once  they  would  suffocate  him.  He  wrote  begging  her 
to  come  for  a  few  days ;  she  replied  that  her  husband  would 
not  permit  her  to  leave  him.  The  aged  Borgia  would  have 
shrunk  from  no  crime  to  rid  himself  of  this  detested  son-in- 
law  as  he  had  rid  himself  of  Lucrezia's  earlier  husbands.  But 
there  was  no  jesting  with  the  Duke  of  Ferrara,  for  he  had  the 
finest  artillery  in  Italy. 

At  the  beginning  of  August  Alexander  went  to  the  villa  of 
Cardinal  Adrian  of  Corneto.  At  supper  he  ate  more  heartily 
than  usual,  and  drank  heavy  Sicilian  wines ;  afterwards  he  sat 
long  on  the  terrace,  enjoying  the  insidious  freshness  of  the 
Roman  night.  Next  morning  he  felt  himself  indisposed.  It 
was  told  afterwards  that  having  approached  the  window  he 
saw  two  funerals,  that  of  his  favourite  chamberlain,  and  that 
of  Messer  Guglielmo  Raimondi,  both  men  heavy  in  figure 
like  himself. 

1  The  season  is  dangerous  for  us  fat  folk,'  he  murmured  fore- 
bodingly. The  words  were  no  sooner  uttered  than  a  dove 
flew  in  at  the  window,  dashed  itself  against  the  wall,  and  fell 
stunned  at  the  feet  of  His  Holiness. 

'Another  omen,' he  muttered,  turning  pale;  and  at  once 
he  went  to  his  apartment  and  lay  down.  In  the  night  he 
was  seized  with  violent  vomiting.  The  physicians  had 
different  opinions  about  his  malady ;  some  called  it  a  tertian 


376  THE  FORERUNNER 

fever;  others  apoplexy,  others  inflammation  of  the  gall 
bladder.      In  the  town  it  was  said  that  he  was  poisoned. 

Every  hour  his  strength  declined.  Ten  days  later  they 
had  recourse  to  their  extreme  measure,  and  gave  him  a 
decoction  of  precious  stones  reduced  to  powder.  Still  he 
grew  worse. 

One  night,  awaking  from  delirium,  he  fumbled  anxiously  in 
his  breast  for  a  small  gold  reliquary  worn  by  him  for  many 
years  and  containing  minute  particles  of  the  body  and  blood 
of  the  Lord.  The  astrologers  had  told  him  his  life  was  safe 
so  long  as  he  carried  it.  But  now,  whether  it  had  been  lost 
or  stolen,  it  could  nowhere  be  found,  and  he  closed  his  eyes 
in  the  calm  of  despair,  saying — 

'  It  means  I  am  to  go :  all  is  ended.' 

Next  morning,  feeling  the  weakness  of  death  coming  over 
him,  he  required  all  to  leave  him  except  his  favourite 
physician,  the  Bishop  of  Venosa.  Him  he  reminded  of  the 
remedy  employed  by  a  Hebrew  doctor  on  his  predecessor, 
Innocent  vin.,  namely,  the  injection  into  the  veins  of  the  dying 
Pope  of  the  blood  of  three  children  newly  slain. 

*  Does  your  Holiness  know  how  it  ended?'  asked  the  bishop. 
*I   know!    I   know!'   said   Alexander  faintly.    'But    the 

children  were  seven  years  old  and  they  should  have  been 
unweaned.' 

The  bishop  made  no  reply;  already  the  sick  man's  eyes 
were  clouding,  and  he  fell  back  into  delirium. 

•  Yes ;  quite  young :  little  white  ones !  They  whose  blood 
is  pure  and  scarlet.  I  love  children !  Let  them  come  to 
me.  Sinite  paruulos  ad  me  venire  I  Suffer  little  children 
to  come  unto  me ! '  .  .  . 

At  these  ravings,  even  the  imperturbable  bishop,  long 
inured  to  the  horrors  of  the  court,  could  not  repress  a 
shudder.  With  monotonous  convulsive  movements,  the  Pope 
still  fumbled  and  groped  in  his  bosom  for  the  vanished 
reliquary. 

During  his  illness  he  had  never  once  mentioned  his  children. 
They  told  him  that  Caesar,  like  himself,  lay  at  death's  door, 
but  he  remained  unmoved.  Now  they  asked  him  if  he 
desired  any  last  message  to  his  son  or  his  daughter,  but  he 
turned  away  his  head  and  said  no  word.  It  seemed  as  if 
those,  whom  in  his  lifetime  he  had  so  passionately  loved,  no 
longer  had  any  existence  for  him. 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  377 

On  the  1 8th,  Friday,  he  confessed  to  his  chaplain,  and 
made  his  communion.  At  the  hour  of  vespers  they  read  the 
prayers  for  the  dying.  Several  times  he  made  an  effort  to 
speak,  and  Cardinal  Ilerda,  bending  down,  at  last  caught  the 
faint  sounds  coming  from  his  cold  lips  : — 

'Quick!  quick!  The  Stabat  Mater!  the  hymn  to  my 
Mediatress  ! '  he  whispered. 

The  hymn  is  not  included  in  the  office  for  the  dying,  but 
Ilerda  repeated  it : — 

*  Stabat  Mater  dolorosa 
Juxta  Crucem  lacrimosa 
Dum  pendebat  Filius.  .  .  .' 

An  ineffable  comfort  shone  in  the  dying  eyes,  as  if  he  saw 
heaven  opened  and  his  Mediatress  waiting.     He  stretched 
out  his  hands,  shuddered,  raised  himself,  and  murmured: — 
'Cast  me  not  away,  O  Holy  Virgin  !' 
Then  he  fell  back  on  his  pillows.     He  was  dead. 

VIII 

At  the  same  time  Caesar  Borgia  likewise  lay  between  life  and 
death.  Monsignor  Gaspare  Torella,  his  episcopal  physician, 
ordered  a  heroic  remedy  ;  the  patient  was  to  be  plunged  into 
the  belly  of  a  newly-slain  mule,  then  into  icy  water.  Whether 
by  virtue  of  this  severe  treatment,  or  of  his  extraordinary 
strength  of  will,  Caesar  recovered. 

During  all  those  terrible  days  he  had  maintained  complete 
calmness  and  self-possession.  He  followed  the  course  of 
events,  listened  to  reports,  dictated  letters,  and  issued  orders. 
When  news  came  of  the  Pope's  death,  he  had  himself  trans- 
ported by  the  secret  passage  from  the  Vatican  to  the  Castle 
of  St.  Angelo. 

Strange  stories  touching  Alexander's  death  were  circulated 
through  the  town.     Marin  Sanuto  reported  to  the  Republic 
of  Venice  that  an  ape  had  come  into  his  room,  and  when  one 
of  the  cardinals  would  have  captured  it,  the  Pope  cried  out  1 — 
c  Let  it  alone  !     Let  it  alone  !     It  is  the  devil !' 
'It  was  also  said  that  he  frequently  cried  out: — 
'  I  will  come  !     I  will  come  !     Do  but  wait  a  little  longer !' 
And  the  explanation  ran,  that  upon  the  death  of  Innocent 
viil,  Rodrigo  Borgia  had  sold  himself  to  the  Evil  One  for 
the  sake  of  twenty  years  of  the  papal  power. 


378  THE  FORERUNNER 

Again  it  was  related  that  at  the  moment  of  death,  seven 
demons  appeared  at  his  pillow ;  and  he  was  no  sooner  dead 
than  the  body  began  to  rock  and  to  boil,  and  steam  came 
from  his  mouth  as  from  a  cauldron ;  his  form  swelled  till  it 
had  lost  all  human  shape,  and  his  face  became  black  as  an 
Ethiopian's. 

It  was  the  custom  upon  the  death  of  a  Pope  to  say  funeral 
masses  for  nine  days  at  St.  Peter's,  but  such  was  the  terror 
inspired  by  this  deformed  and  putrefying  corpse,  that  none 
could  be  induced  to  undertake  these  extreme  offices.  There 
were  no  lights  about  the  bier,  nor  incense,  nor  guards,  nor 
mourners.  It  was  long  before  any  could  be  found  to  put  him 
in  a  coffin.  At  last  six  ruffians. undertook  the  task  for  a 
bottle  of  wine.  The  coffin  was  too  small,  but  the  triple  crown 
having  been  lifted  from  the  head,  the  body  was  rolled  in  a 
ragged  cloth  and  forced  into  the  receptacle.  It  was  indeed 
whispered  that  he  had  no  coffin,  but  was  dropped  into  a  pit 
head  foremost  like  a  victim  of  the  plague. 

But  even  after  its  burial  this  poor  corpse  was  allowed  no 
pardon ;  the  superstitious  terrors  of  the  people  augmented 
daily.  The  very  air  seemed  polluted,  and  a  pervading  loath- 
some stench  was  added  to  the  epidemic  fever.  A  black  dog 
appeared  in  St.  Peter's,  running  round  and  round  in  ever 
widening  circles.  The  inhabitants  of  the  Borgo  dared  not 
leave  their  homes  after  nightfall.  Many  were  convinced  that 
Alexander  had  not  died  a  natural  death,  but  would  reappear 
on  the  throne,  and  the  reign  of  Antichrist  would  begin. 

All  these  and  similar  reports  did  Giovanni  Boltraffio  hear 
in  the  Vicolo  Sinibaldi,  in  the  wine-cellar  of  Yan  Khromy, 
the  lame  Czech  Hussite. 

IX 

Meantime  Leonardo,  careless  of  political  events  and  re- 
moved from  all  his  friends,  was  working  on  a  picture  begun 
some  time  ago  to  the  order  of  the  Servite  monks  of  Santa 
Maria  Annunziata  at  Florence.  It  represented  St.  Anne  and 
the  Virgin  Mary;  perfect  knowledge  and  perfect  love.  St. 
Anne  wr.s  like  a  sibyl,  eternally  young;  on  her  downcast 
eyes,  on  her  delicately  curved  lips,  there  played  a  mystery 
of  seduction,  full  of  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent,  not  unlike 
Leonardo's  own  smile.     Beside  her,  the  face  of  Mary,  childish 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  379 

and  simple,  breathed  the  innocence  of  the  dove.  She  knew 
because  she  loved,  while  Anne  loved  because  she  knew. 
Looking  at  this  picture,  Giovanni  thought  that  for  the  first 
time  he  understood  the  master's  saying,  '  that  Great  Love  is 
the  daughter  of  Great  Knowledge.'  Leonardo  at  this  time 
was  also  designing  machines  of  various  kinds  and  shapes, 
gigantic  cranes,  pumps,  saws,  borers ;  weaving,  fulling,  rope- 
making,  and  smith's  apparatus. 

As  often  before,  Giovanni  was  astonished  that  he  could 
occupy  himself  simultaneously  in  such  widely  different  ways, 
but  the  seeming  discord  was  intentional. 

'I  maintain/  he  wrote  in  his  Principles  of  Mechanics^ 
'that  Force  is  something  spiritual  and  unseen — spiritual,  be-' 
cause  the  life  in  it  is  incorporeal ;  unseen,  because  the  body 
in  which  the  force  is  generated  changes  neither  its  weight 
nor  its  aspect.' 

Leonardo's  destiny  was  decided  with  that  of  Caesar  Borgia. 
The  latter,  though  he  never  lost  audacity  and  calm,  felt  that 
fortune  had  betrayed  him.  At  the  time  of  the  Pope's  death 
and  Caesar's  own  illness,  their  enemies  leagued  themselves  and 
seized  the  Roman  Campagna.  Prospero  Colonna  advanced 
to  the  city  gates,  Baglioni  on  Perugia.  Urbino,  Camerino, 
Piombino  recovered  their  independence.  The  conclave, 
assembled  for  the  election  of  the  new  Pope,  demanded  the 
removal  of  the  duke  from  Rome.  The  whole  order  of  things 
was  changed ;  it  seemed  as  if  all  were  lost. 

Those  who  had  trembled  before  'the  elect  of  Heaven,'  as 
Machiavelli  had  called  him,  now  rejoiced  at  his  overthrow, 
and  kicked  the  dying  lion  with  asses's  hoofs.  The  poets 
furnished  epigrams : — 

'  Caesar  or  nothing  !     Both  we  find  in  thee, 
Who  Caesar  wast,  and  soon  shalt  nothing  be.' 

Leonardo,  conversing  one  day  in  the  Vatican  with  Antonio 
Giustiniani  the  Venetian,  turned  the  conversation  on 
Machiavelli. 

1  Has  he  told  you  of  his  book  on  statecraft?' 
'Oh  yes;  he  has  mentioned  it  frequently,  but  no  doubt  he 
spoke  in  jest.  That  is  not  a  book  to  give  to  the  world ! 
Who  writes  such  books  ?  Counsel  to  rulers  ?  Revelation  of 
the  secrets  of  government? — showing  that  all  rule  is  violence 
covered  by  a  mask  of  justice?     'Twere  to  teach  the  hens  the 


380  THE  FORERUNNER 

methods  of  the  fox;  to  arm  the  sheep  with  wolfs  teeth! 
God  guard  us  from  such  politics ! ' 

'Then  you  think  Messer  Niccolb  in  error,  and  that  he  will 
change  his  opinions  ? ' 

'Nay!  my  opinion  is  with  him  !  We  do  well  to  act  as  he 
counsels;  only  let  us  not  speak  it.  Yet  if  he  do  give  his 
book  to  the  world,  I  doubt  it  will  harm  any  but  himself.  The 
sheep  and  the  fowls  will  go  on  trusting  the  wolves  and  the 
foxes.  All  will  be  invariable  as  before.  God  is  merciful; 
the  world  will  last  our  time/ 


>: 

In  the  autumn  of  1503  Piero  Soderini,  Perpetual  Gon- 
faloniere  of  Florence,  invited  Leonardo  to  enter  his  service, 
intending  to  employ  him  in  the  construction  of  military 
engines  for  the  siege  of  Pisa.  The  stay  of  the  artist  in  Rome 
was  therefore  nearing  its  close. 

One  evening  he  wandered  on  the  Palatine  Hill,  where  had 
stood  the  palaces  of  Augustus,  Caligula,  and  Septimius 
Severus.  Now  only  the  wind  howled  in  the  ruins,  and 
among  the  olives  and  the  acanthus  was  heard  the  bleat- 
ing of  sheep  and  the  chirrup  of  the  grasshopper.  The 
ground  was  strewn  with  marble  fragments,  and  Leonardo 
knew  that  statues  of  rare  beauty  of  the  gods  and  heroes  of 
the  ancient  world  were  buried  under  the  ruins,  like  dead  men 
awaiting  the  resurrection.  The  evening  was  serene  and  fair; 
the  brick  skeletons  of  arches,  vaults,  and  walls,  glowed  fiery 
in  the  rays  of  the  sinking  sun.  The  autumn  foliage  was  all 
scarlet  and  gold,  as  once  had  been  the  chambers  of  the 
Roman  emperors. 

On  the  northern  slope  of  the  hill,  not  far  from  the  gardens 
of  Capranica,  Leonardo  knelt  to  examine  a  fragment  of 
marble.  At  this  moment  a  man  appeared  on  the  tangled 
footpath. 

'Is  it  you,  Messer  Niccolb?'  said  Leonardo,  rising  and 
embracing  him. 

The  Florentine  secretary  seemed  still  shabbier  than  when 
Leonardo  had  made  his  acquaintance  on  the  road  to  Fano ; 
it  was  evident  that  the  Signoria  still  neglected  him.  He  was 
thin,  his  shaven  cheeks  seemed  quite  blue,  his  long  neck 
bent  wearily,  his  nose  seemed  more  prominent  and  beak- 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  381 

like,  his  eyes  more  fevered.  Leonardo  asked  him  of  his 
whereabouts  and  his  affairs;  but  when  he  spoke  of  Caesar, 
Niccolo  turned  away,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  replying 
with  simulated  indifference  : — 

c  I  have  seen  strange  things  in  my  life ;  I  no  longer  wonder 
at  anything  ; '  and  then  he  fell  to  questioning  Leonardo  as  if 
anxious  to  change  the  subject.  When  he  heard  that  his  friend 
had  entered  the  service  of  Florence,  Machiavelli  cried : — 

*  Be  not  elated !  God  only  knows  which  is  the  worse,  the 
crimes  of  a  hero  like  Caesar,  or  the  virtues  of  our  ant-hill  of  a 
republic.  Oh,  I  know  the  beauties  of  a  popular  government ! ' 
and  he  smiled  bitterly. 

Leonardo  told  him  Giustiniani's  parable  of  the  hens  and 
the  foxes,  the  sheep  and  the  wolves. 

'Truth  remains  truth,'  said  Niccolo,  restored  to  good 
humour.  'True,  I  irritate  the  hens  and  the  foxes  too;  they 
are  ready  to  burn  me  at  the  stake  for  being  the  first  to 
describe  what  they  have  all  being  doing  ever  since  the  world 
began.  The  tyrants  think  me  an  inciter  to  revolution,  the 
populace  believe  me  in  league  with  the  tyrants,  the  religious 
call  me  an  infidel,  the  good  call  me  wicked,  and  the  wicked 
hate  me  more  than  they  all  because  I  seem  to  them  more 
wicked  than  themselves.  Ah,  Messer  Leonardo,  do  you 
recall  our  conversations?  You  and  I  have  a  common  fate. 
The  discovery  of  new  truths  is,  and  has  ever  been,  more 
dangerous  than  discovery  of  new  lands.  You  and  I  are 
solitary  in  a  crowd,  strangers,  superfluous,  homeless  wanderers, 
perpetual  outcasts.  He  who  is  unlike  others  is  alone  against 
all ;  for  the  world  has  been  created  for  the  masses,  and  out- 
side the  vulgar  no  one  is  anything.  Ay,  my  friend,  this  is  a 
serious  matter,  for  it  means  that  life  is  tedious;  and  the 
worst  misfortune  in  life  is  not  sickness,  nor  poverty,  nor  grief; 
but  tediousness.' 

In  silence  they  descended  the  western  slope  of  the 
Palatine,  and  by  the  Via  della  Consolazione  reached  the 
foot  of  the  Capitol,  the  ruins  of  the  temple  of  Saturn,  the  place 
where  in  the  days  of  glory  had  stood  the  Forum  Romanum. 

From  the  Arch  of  Septimius  Severus,  as  far  as  to  the 
Flavian  amphitheatre,  the  Via  Sacra  was  flanked  by  wretched 
hovels.  Their  foundations  were  formed  of  fragments  of 
statues,  of  the  limbs  and  torsos  of  Olympian  gods.  For 
centuries  the  forum  had  been  a  quarry.     Christian  churches 


382  THE  FORERUNNER 

languished  on  the  ruins  of  pagan  shrines.  Layer  upon  layer 
of  street  rubbish,  of  dust,  of  filth,  had  raised  the  level  of  the 
ground  more  than  ten  cubits.  Yet  still  lofty  columns  soared 
upwards  and  carried  sculptured  architraves — last  traces  of  a 
vanished  art. 

Machiavelli  showed  his  companion  the  site  of  the  Roman 
Senate,  the  Curia,  where  now  a  cattle-market  was  held, 
giving  to  the  whole  glorious  area  the  ignoble  name  of 
'Campo  Vaccino.'  Huge  white  bullocks,  and  the  black 
buffaloes  of  the  Pontine  marshes  lay  on  the  ground,  swine 
routed  in  the  puddles,  liquid  mire  and  every  sort  of  filth 
befouled  the  fallen  columns,  the  marble  slabs,  the  half- 
defaced  inscriptions.  A  feudal  tower,  once  the  stronghold 
of  the  Frangipa?iii  leaned  against  the  Arch  of  Titus ;  beside 
it  was  a  tavern  for  the  peasants  who  came  to  the  market. 
Cries  of  brawling  women  were  heard  through  the  windows, 
and  the  refuse  of  meat  and  fish  was  flung  out  by  careless 
hands.  Half-washed  rags  were  dried  on  a  string,  and 
beneath  them  sat  an  aged  and  deformed  beggar,  banda- 
ging his  sore  and  swollen  foot.  Behind  this  squalor  rose 
the  arch,  white  and  pure,  less  shattered  than  the  remaining 
monuments.  Bas-reliefs  adorned  both  sides  of  the  interior; 
on  the  right  Titus  the  conqueror,  on  the  left  the  captive  Jews 
with  their  altar,  shewbread,  and  seven-branched  candlestick, 
mere  trophies  for  the  victor;  at  the  top  of  the  arch  a  broad- 
winged  eagle  bearing  the  deified  Caesar  to  Olympus.  Machia- 
velli read  the  inscription  in  sonorous  tones:  ' Senatus 
Populusque  Romanus  divo  Tito  divi  Vespasiani  filio  Vespasiano 
Au gusto? 

The  sunlight  coming  through  the  arch  from  the  direction 
of  the  Capitol  lit  up  the  emperor's  triumph,  the  malodorous 
curls  of  smoke  from  the  tavern  seemed  like  clouds  of  incense. 
Niccolb's  heart  beat  as,  turning  once  more  to  the  Forum,  he 
saw  the  light  on  the  three  exquisite  columns  before  the 
church  of  St.  Maria  Liberatrice;  the  dreary  jangling  of  the 
bells  sounding  the  Ave  Maria  seemed  to  him  a  dirge  over 
fallen  greatness.     They  directed  their  steps  to  the  Coliseum. 

'Ay,'  he  said,  contemplating  the  titanic  blocks  of  which  the 
amphitheatre's  walls  are  made,  '  those  who  could  erect  such 
monuments  were  more  than  our  equals.  'Tis  only  here  in 
Rome  that  one  can  feel  the  difference  between  us  and  the 
ancients.    We  are  unable  even  to  figure  what  men  they  were.' 


I 


THE  PURPLE  BEAST— 1503  3S3 

*  I  know  not,'  said  Leonardo,  awaking  with  an  effort  from 
his  musing;  'we  of  this  age  have  not  less  force  than  the 
ancients;  only  'tis  force  of  another  sort.' 

*  Christian  humility,  I  suppose?' 

'  Ay,  humility  amongst  other  things,  perhaps.' 

*  It  may  be  so,'  said  Niccolo  coldly. 

They  seated  themselves  on  a  broken  step  of  the  amphitheatre. 

'Men  should  either  accept  Christ  or  reject  him,'  exclaimed 
Machiavelli  in  a  sudden  outburst;  'we  do  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other.  We  are  neither  Christian  nor  heathen.  We 
have  fallen  away  from  the  one,  and  have  not  submitted  to 
the  other.  We  have  not  the  strength  for  righteousness,  we 
have  not  the  courage  for  wickedness.  We  are  neither  black 
nor  white,  but  a  scurvy  grey ;  neither  cold  nor  hot,  but  a 
mawkish  lukewarm.  We  have  become  so  false,  so  pusillani- 
mous, we  have  twisted  about,  and  halted  so  long  between 
Christ  and  Belial,  that  now  we  neither  know  wThat  we  want 
nor  whither  we  are  tending.  The  ancients  at  least  knew  that 
much,  and  were  logical  to  the  end ;  did  not  pretend  to  turn 
the  right  cheek  to  him  who  smote  the  left.  But  since  men 
began  to  believe  that  to  earn  paradise  they  should  suffer  any 
injustice,  any  violence  on  earth,  an  open  door  has  been  set 
before  rascals.  Is  it  not  a  fact  that  Christianity  has  paralysed 
the  world,  and  made  it  a  prey  to  villains?' 

His  voice  shook,  his  eyes  flashed  with  consuming  hatred, 
his  face  was  contorted  as  if  from  unendurable  pain. 

Leonardo  made  no  answer.  He  gazed  at  the  blue  heavens 
shining  through  gaps  in  the  Coliseum  walls ;  and  he  reflected 
that  nowhere  did  the  azure  sky  seem  so  radiant  and  stainless 
as  in  the  interstices  of  ruins.  Birds  were  flitting  in  and  out 
of  the  holes  left  where  the  barbarians  had  wrenched  away  the 
iron  bars.  Leonardo  watched  them  fluttering  to  their 
roosting  places;  and  he  thought  how  the  world-swaying 
Caesars,  who  had  erected  the  building,  and  the  northern 
hordes  who  had  pillaged  it,  had  worked  for  those  of  whom  it 
is  written :  '  They  sow  not,  neither  do  they  reap ;  and  God 
feedeth  them.' 

Everything  to  Leonardo  was  joy,  to  Niccolo  all  was 
vexation;  honey  to  one  was  gall  to  the  other;  perfected 
knowledge  had  bred  love  in  the  one,  hatred  in  the  other. 
But  Machiavelli  interrupted  these  musings,  as  usual  anxious 
to  end  the  conversation  with  a  joke : — 


384  THE  FORERUNNER 

I  I  perceive,  Messer  Leonardo,  that  they  wno  think  you 
impious  stand  in  gross  error.  In  the  Judgment,  when  the 
angelic  trump  shall  separate  the  lambs  from  the  wolves,  you 
will  be  among  lambs.' 

'Well,' said  the  painter,  falling  in  with  his  humour,  'if  I 
get  to  Paradise,  you  will  come  with  me/ 

I I  cry  you  mercy !  I  have  suffered  overmuch  in  this  world 
from  tedium !  My  place  I  will  give  to  any  anxious  for  it. 
Hearken,  good  friend,  and  I  will  relate  to  you  a  dream.  I 
was  taken  into  an  assembly  of  hungered,  unwashen  outcasts, 
monks  with  yellow  faces,  old  beggars,  slaves,  cripples,  idiots, 
and  taught  that  these  were  they  of  whom  it  is  written: 
"  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven."  Then  they  had  me  to  another  place,  where  I  saw 
an  assembly  of  men  in  semblance  like  Senators.  Among 
them  were  emperors,  and  popes,  and  captains,  and  lawgivers, 
and  philosophers;  Homer,  Alexander  the  Great,  Marcus 
Aurelius.  They  talked  of  learning  and  of  statecraft.  And 
to  my  wonderment  I  was  told  this  was  hell,  and  these  were 
all  sinners  cast  out  by  God,  because  they  had  loved  the  world 
and  the  wisdom  of  the  world,  which  is  foolishness  with  the 
Lord.  And  I  was  bidden  to  choose  between  hell  and  heaven, 
and  I  cried:  "To  hell  with  me!  With  the  sages  and  the 
heroes  !"' 

1  If  the  reality  be  as  you  describe  it,'  said  Leonardo,  '  I  also 
should  prefer  .  .  .' 

*  Nay,  it  is  too  late !  You  have  made  your  choice.  You 
will  be  rewarded  for  Christian  virtues  by  a  Christian  heaven !' 

They  lingered  in  the  Coliseum  till  dark.  The  yellow  moon 
had  sailed  up  from  behind  the  stupendous  arches  of  the 
Basilica  of  Constantine,  severing  with  her  rays  a  bed  of 
cloud,  transparent  and  delicately  tinted  as  mother-o'-pearl. 
The  three  columns  in  front  of  St.  Maria  Liberatrice  shone 
like  phantoms.  And  the  cracked  bell  sounding  the  Christian 
'Angelus*  seemed  more  than  ever  like  a  dirge  over  the 
trampled  and  forgotten  Romans. 


BOOK    XIV 

MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA — 1503-1506 

*  The  darkness  of  that  subterranean  place  was  too  deep,  and  when  I 
had  passed  some  time  therein,  two  feelings  awoke  within  me  and  con- 
tended— fear  and  curiosity ;  fear  of  exploring  that  dark  depth  ;  curiosity 
as  to  its  secret.'  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 


Leonardo  used  to  say : — 

*For  portraits,  have  a  special  studio;  a  court,  oblong  and 
rectangular,  ten  braccia  in  width,  twenty  in  length,  the  walls 
painted  black,  with  a  projecting  roof  and  canvas  curtains  for 
the  sun.  Or,  if  you  haven't  the  canvas  curtains,  paint  only 
in  the  twilight,  or  when  it  is  clouded  and  dull.  That  is  the 
perfect  light.' 

Just  such  a  court  for  the  painting  of  portraits  he  had  made 
for  himself  in  the  house  of  the  Florentine  citizen  who  lodged 
him;  a  notable  personage,  commissary  of  the  Signoria,  a 
mathematician,  a  man  of  intellect  and  of  amiability,  his  name 
Ser  Piero  di  Braccio  Martelli.  His  house  was  the  second  in 
the  Via  Martelli,  on  the  left  as  one  goes  from  San  Giovanni 
to  the  Palazzo  Medici. 

It  was  a  warm  misty  afternoon,  towards  the  close  of  spring, 
in  the  year  1505.  The  sun  shone  through  clouds;  there  was 
a  dull  light,  which  seemed  as  if  shining  under  water,  throwing 
delicate  liquid  shadows — Leonardo's  favourite  condition  of 
the  atmosphere ;  which,  he  thought,  gave  special  charm  to 
the  face  of  a  woman. 

'Will  she  come?'  he  asked  himself,  thinking  of  her  whose 
portrait  he  had  been  painting  for  nearly  three  years,  with  p 
tenacity  and  a  zeal  unwonted. 
2  B 


3S6  THE  FORERUNNER 

He  arranged  the  studio  for  her  reception.  Boltraffio, 
watching  him,  marvelled  at  his  unusual  solicitude. 

He  prepared  palette,  brushes,  and  skins  of  paint,  each 
one  coated  with  a  transparent  film  of  gum  arabic.  He 
removed  the  cover  from  the  portrait,  which  was  disposed 
on  a  movable  three-legged  stand  called  a  leggio.  He  set 
the  fountain  playing  in  the  middle  of  the  court.  It  had 
been  constructed  for  her  delight  —  falling  streams  striking 
against  glass  spheres  put  them  in  motion  and  produced  a 
strange  low  music.  Her  favourite  flowers  had  been  planted 
round  the  fountain  —  pale  irises  —  the  lilies  of  Florence. 
Then  he  crumbled  bread  in  a  basket  for  the  tame  doe  which 
lived  in  the  court,  and  which  she  used  to  feed  with  her  own 
hands ;  lastly,  he  arranged  her  chair,  of  smooth  dark  oak  with 
carved  back  and  arms ;  before  it  placed  a  soft  rug,  upon  which 
was  already  curled  and  purring  a  white  cat  of  a  rare  breed, 
procured  for  her  pleasure,  a  dainty  foreign  beast  with  vari- 
coloured eyes,  the  right  yellow  as  a  topaz,  the  left  sapphire 
blue. 

Meantime,  Andrea  Salaino  had  begun  to  tune  the  viol; 
another  musician,  one  Atalante,  whom  Leonardo  had  known 
at  the  Milanese  court,  brought  the  silver  lyre,  shaped  like  a 
horse's  head,  which  the  artist  had  invented. 

The  best  musicians,  singers,  story-tellers,  and  poets,  the 
most  witty  talkers,  were  invited  by  Leonardo  to  his  studio 
to  amuse  her,  and  avert  the  tedium  of  her  sittings.  He 
studied  the  changeful  beauty  of  her  expression  as  reflects  of 
thought  and  feeling  were  awakened  by  talk,  music,  poetry, 
in  turn. 

Now  all  was  ready,  but  still  she  delayed  her  coming. 

'Where  is  she?'  he  thought;  'the  light  and  the  shadow 
to-day  are  just  her  own.  Shall  I  send  to  seek  her?  Nay, 
but  she  knows  how  ardently  I  await  her !    She  will  come/ 

And  Giovanni  noticed  that  his  impatience  grew. 

Suddenly  a  light  waft  of  the  breeze  swayed  the  jet  of  the 
fountain,  the  delicate  irises  shook  as  the  spray  fell  on  them. 
The  keen-eared  doe  was  on  the  alert,  with  outstretched  neck. 
Leonardo  listened.  And  Giovanni,  though  he  heard  nothing, 
knew  it  was  she. 

First,  with  a  humble  reverence,  came  Sister  Camilla,  a  lay- 
companion  who  lived  with  her,  and  always  attended  her  to 
the  studio,  sitting  quietly  apart  studying  a  prayer-book,  and 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         387 

effacing  herself,  so  that  in  three  years  Leonardo  had  hardly 
heard  her  voice.  The  sister  was  followed  by  the  woman  all 
expected;  a  woman  of  thirty,  in  a  plain  dark  dress,  and  a 
dark  transparent  veil  which  reached  to  the  centre  of  her 
forehead — Monna  Lisa  Gioconda. 

She  was  a  Neapolitan  of  noble  birth ;  her  father,  Antonio 
Gherardini,  had  lost  his  wealth  in  the  French  invasion  of 
1495,  and  had  married  his  daughter  to  the  Florentine, 
Francesco  del  Giocondo,  who  had  seen  the  death  of  two 
wives  already.  Messer  Francesco  was  five  years  younger 
than  Leonardo ;  was  one  of  the  twelve  JBonuomini,  and  was 
likely  later  to  be  made  Prior.  He  was  a  mediocre  personage, 
of  a  type  to  be  found  in  every  country  and  in  every  age ; 
neither  good  nor  bad  ;  busy  in  a  commonplace  way,  absorbed 
in  his  affairs,  content  with  daily  routine.  He  regarded 
his  young  wife  as  nothing  more  than  an  ornament  for  his 
house.  Her  essential  charm  he  understood  less  than  the 
points  of  his  Sicilian  cattle,  or  the  impost  upon  raw  sheep- 
skins. She  was  said  to  have  married  this  man  solely  to  please 
her  father,  and  by  her  marriage  to  have  driven  an  earlier 
lover  to  a  voluntary  death.  It  was  also  said  that  she  still 
had  a  crowd  of  passionate  adorers — persevering,  but  hopeless. 
The  scandalmongers  could  find  nothing  worse  than  this  to 
insinuate.  Calm,  gentle,  retiring,  pious,  charitable  to  the 
poor,  she  was  a  faithful  wife,  a  good  housekeeper,  a  most 
tender  mother  to  Dianora,  her  twelve-year-old  step-daughter. 

Giovanni  knew  all  this  of  Monna  Lisa.  Yet  she  never 
visited  Leonardo's  studio  without  seeming  to  the  pupil  a 
wholly  different  person  from  Messer  Francesco's  wife.  She 
had  been  coming  now  for  three  years,  and  Giovanni's  first 
impressions  had  been  only  confirmed  by  subsequent  observa- 
tions. He  found  something  mysterious,  illusory,  phantasmal 
about  her  which  filled  him  with  awe.  Leonardo's  portrait 
seemed  more  real  than  she  was  herself.  She  and  the  painter 
— whom  she  never  saw  except  when  sitting  to  him,  and  then 
never  alone — appeared  to  share  some  secret;  not  a  love- 
secret,  at  least  not  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term. 

Leonardo  had  once  spoken  of  the  tendency  felt  by  every 
artist  to  reproduce  his  own  likeness  in  his  pictures  of  others, 
the  reason  of  this  tendency  being  that  both  his  own  material 
semblance  and  his  work  are  the  creation  and  manifestation 
of  his  soul.     In  this  ease  Giovanni  found  that  not  merely 


3SS  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  portrait,  but  the  woman  herself,  was  growing  daily 
more  like  the  painter.  The  likeness  was  less  in  the  features 
than  in  the  expression  of  eyes  and  in  the  smile.  But  he 
had  already  seen  this  smile  on  the  lips  of  Verrocchio's 
Unbelieving  Thomas;  of  Eve  before  the  Tree  of  Science, 
Leonardo's  first  picture ;  in  the  Leda ;  in  the  Angel  of  the 
Madonna  dclle  Roccie;  and  in  a  hundred  other  drawings, 
executed  before  ever  he  had  met  Monna  Lisa :  as  though, 
throughout  life,  he  had  sought  his  own  reflection,  and  had 
found  it  completely  at  last. 

When  Giovanni  looked  at  that  smile,  he  felt  perturbed, 
alarmed,  as  if  in  presence  of  the  supernatural ;  reality  seemed 
a  dream,  and  the  dream-world  reality ;  Monna  Lisa,  not  the 
wife  of  Giocondo,  the  very  ordinary  Florentine  citizen,  but 
a  phantom  evoked  by  the  will  of  the  master,  a  female 
semblance  of  Leonardo  himself. 

Lisa  took  her  seat,  and  the  white  cat  jumped  on  her  lap ; 
she  stroked  it  with  delicate  fingers,  and  faint  cracklings 
and  sparks  came  from  the  silky  fur.  Leonardo  began  his 
work ;  but  presently  he  laid  it  aside  and  sat  silent,  looking 
into  her  face  with  an  intentness  that  no  faintest  shadow  of 
change  in  her  expression  could  have  escaped. 

1  Madonna,'  he  said  at  last, ' you  are  preoccupied — troubled 
about  something  to-day.' 

Giovanni  had  observed  that  to-day  she  did  not  resemble 
the  portrait. 

*  I  am  a  little  troubled,'  she  replied ;  '  Dianora  ails,  and  I 
have  been  up  with  her  the  whole  night.' 

1  Then  you  are  wearied,  and  the  pose  will  try  you.  We 
will  defer  the  sitting  to  another  time.' 

'  Nay,  we  cannot  lose  this  delightful  day !  See  the  misty 
sunlight  and  the  delicate  shadows  !     It  is  my  day  ! ' 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  she  went  on :  '  I  knew 
you  expected  me.  I  was  ready  to  come  earlier ;  but  I  was 
kept.     Madonna  Sophonisba ' 

'Who?  Ah,  I  know.  She  with  the  voice  of  a  fishwife 
and  the  scent  of  a  perfumer's  shop ! ' 

Monna  Lisa  smiled  quietly.  'She  had  to  tell  me  about 
the  fete  at  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  given  by  Argentina,  wife  of 
the  Gonfaloniere ;  of  the  supper,  the  dresses,  the  lovers ' 

'  Ay,  'tis  not  Dianora's  indisposition  has  disturbed  you,  but 
this  woman's  senseless  gossip.    Strange  case  !   Have  you  never 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         389 

noticed,  madonna,  how  sometimes  a  single  absurdity  on 
an  indifferent  subject  from  an  uninteresting  person  will 
throw  a  gloom  over  the  mind,  and  afflict  us  more  than  our 
proper  cares  ? ' 

She  bent  her  head  silently ;  it  was  clear  they  understood 
each  other  too  well  for  words  to  be  always  necessary. 

Leonardo  again  addressed  himself  to  work. 

*  Tell  me  something !  ■  she  cried. 

'What  shall  I  tell  you? ' 

She  smiled.     '  Tell  me  about  The  Realm  of  Venus.7 

The  artist  had  certain  favourite  stories  for  La  Gioconda ; 
tales  of  travel,  of  natural  phenomena,  of  plans  for  pictures. 
He  knew  them  by  heart,  and  would  recite  always  in 
the  same  simple  half-childlike  words,  accompanied  by  soft 
music,  in  his  feminine  voice,  the  old  fable,  or  cradle-tale. 
Andrea  and  Atalante  took  their  instruments,  and  when  they 
had  executed  the  motif  which  invariably  preluded  The  Realm 
of  Venus,  he  began  : — 

'  The  seafarers  who  live  on  the  coasts  of  Cilicia  tell  of  him 
who  is  destined  to  drown,  that  for  a  moment,  during  the  most 
tremendous  storms,  he  is  permitted  to  behold  the  island  of 
Cyprus,  realm  of  the  Goddess  of  Love.  Around  boil  whirl- 
winds and  whirlpools,  and  the  voices  of  the  waters ;  and  great 
in  number  are  the  navigators  who,  attracted  by  the  splendour 
of  that  island,  have  lost  ships  upon  its  rocks.  Many  a  gallant 
bark  has  there  been  dashed  to  pieces,  many  sunk  for  ever  in 
the  deep  !  Yonder  on  the  coast  lie  piteous  hulks,  overgrown 
with  seaweed,  half  buried  by  sand.  Of  one  the  prow  juts 
exposed ;  of  another  the  stern  ;  of  another  the  gaping  beams 
of  its  side,  like  the  blackened  ribs  of  a  corpse.  So  many 
are  they,  that  there  it  looks  like  the  Resurrection  Day,  when  the 
Sea  shall  give  up  its  dead  !  But  over  the  isle  itself  is  a  curtain 
of  eternal  azure,  and  the  sun  shines  on  flowery  hills.  And  the 
stillness  of  the  air  is  such,  that  when  the  priest  swings  the 
censer  on  the  temple  steps,  the  flame  ascends  to  heaven 
straight,  unwavering  as  the  white  columns  and  the  giant 
cypresses  mirrored  in  an  untroubled  lake  lying  inland,  far 
from  the  shore.  Only  the  streams  that  flow  from  that  lake,  and 
cascades  leaping  from  one  porphyry  basin  to  another,  trouble 
the  solitude  with  their  pleasant  sound.  Those  drowning  far 
at  sea  hear  for  a  moment  that  soft  murmur,  and  see  the  still 
lake  of  sweet  waters,  and  the  wind  carries  to  them  the  per- 


39o  THE  FORERUNNER 

fume  of  myrtle  and  rose.  Ever  the  more  terrible  the  outer 
tempest,  the  profounder  that  calm  in  the  island  realm  of  the 
Cyprian.' 

He  ceased:  the  strains  of  lute  and  viol  died  away,  and 
that  silence  followed  which  is  sweeter  than  any  music.  As 
if  lulled  by  the  words  just  spoken,  as  if  caught  away  from 
actual  life  by  the  long  hush,  a  stranger  to  all  things  except 
the  will  of  the  artist,  Monna  Lisa,  like  calm  and  pure  and 
fathomless  water,  looked  into  Leonardo's  eyes  with  that  mystic 
smile  which  was  the  very  counterpart  of  his  own.  Giovanni 
Boltraffio,  watching  now  one,  now  the  other,  thought  of  two 
mirrors,  each  reflecting,  absorbing  the  other  into  infinity. 

II 

Next  morning  Leonardo  was  working  in  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio  at  his  *  Battle  of  Anghiari.' 

In  1503,  when  he  had  come  from  Rome,  he  had  received 
an  order  from  Piero  Soderini,  then  the  supreme  authority  in 
the  republic,  to  paint  some  memorable  battle  on  the  wall  of 
the  new  council-chamber.  He  chose  the  famous  Florentine 
victory  of  1440,  over  Niccolo  Piccinino,  the  general  of  Filippo 
Visconti,  Duke  of  Lombardy. 

A  portion  of  the  picture  was  already  completed :  four  horse- 
men struggling  for  possession  of  a  standard — little  more  than 
a  rag  fluttering  on  a  staff,  its  pole  snapped  and  about  to  be 
shivered  into  pieces.  Five  hands  have  seized  the  shaft,  and 
are  pulling  furiously  in  contrary  directions.  Sabres  cross  in 
the  air ;  mouths  are  opened  in  a  horrific  yell.  The  distorted 
human  faces  are  not  less  hideous  than  the  jowls  of  the 
monstrous  creatures  on  their  helmets.  The  horses  have  been 
infected  with  the  fury  of  their  riders,  and  are  rearing  and 
striking  each  other  with  their  forelegs,  their  ears  laid  back, 
their  eyeballs  rolling  and  glaring,  as  they  gnash  their  teeth 
and  bite  like  tigers.  Below,  in  a  pool  of  blood,  one  man  is 
killing  another,  clutching  his  hair  and  dashing  his  head 
against  the  ground,  not  noticing  that  in  a  moment  they  will 
both  alike  be  trampled  down  by  the  advancing  hoofs. 

This  was  war  in  all  its  horror,  the  supreme  folly  of  humanity, 
the  '  most  bestial  of  madnesses,'  according  to  Leonardo's  own 
expression,  'which  leaves  no  footprint  unfilled  with  blood.' 

This  morning  the  painter  had  scarcely  taken  his  work  in 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         391 

hand  when  he  heard  steps  upon  the  brick  floor;  he  recognised 
them,  and  frowned  without  looking  up.  It  was  Piero  Soderini, 
the  Gonfaloniere. 

Soderini  required  a  precise  account  of  every  soldo  advanced 
by  the  treasury  for  the  purchase  of  wood,  lac,  chalk,  paints, 
linseed  oil,  and  other  trifles.  Never,  when  in  the  service  of 
*  tyrants,'  as  the  Gcnfaloniere  contemptuously  called  them,  at 
the  courts  of  Ludovico  Sforza,  or  of  Caesar  Borgia,  had  Leon- 
ardo been  subjected  to  such  petty  interferences  as  here  in  the 
service  of  the  free  republic,  in  the  region  of  civil  equality. 

'For  what  had  you  hoped?'  asked  the  painter  with  a 
certain  curiosity. 

'  We  had  hoped  that  your  work  would  immortalise  the  war- 
like renown  of  the  republic,  and  show  the  memorable  exploits 
of  our  heroes ;  had  hoped  for  something  to  elevate  the  soul, 
to  give  a  noble  example  of  patriotism.  I  grant  you  that  war 
is  as  you  have  shown  it ;  but,  I  ask  yon,  Messer  Leonardo, 
why  not  ennoble  and  adorn  it,  and  modify  its  extremes?  for 
the  great  thing  is  "  moderation  in  all  things  ! "  I  may  be  mis- 
taken, but  to  my  thinking  the  painter's  true  business  is  to 
benefit  the  people  by  instructing  them.' 

He  had  now  touched  on  his  favourite  theme,  and  with 
brightened  eyes  he  talked  on  ;  his  monotonous  voice  had  the 
ceaseless  trickle  of  water,  wearing  away  a  stone.  The  painter 
scarcely  replied;  though,  curious  to  know  what  this  worthy 
citizen  really  thought  on  the  subject  of  art,  he  listened  at 
intervals  with  some  attention.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  gone  into 
a  dark  and  narrow  room,  crowded  with  people,  and  with  an 
absolutely  stifling  atmosphere. 

1  Art  which  has  no  profit  for  the  people/  said  Messer  Piero, 
'is  merely  an  amusement  for  the  rich,  a  distraction  for  the 
idle,  a  luxury  for  tyrants.     You  agree,  my  good  sir?' 

'  Certainly,' assented  Leonardo,  and  he  continued,  sarcastic 
purpose  scarce  visible  in  the  twinkle  of  his  eyes.  '  Permit 
me,  sir,  to  suggest  a  practical  method  of  terminating  our 
perennial  debate.  Let  the  citizens  of  the  Florentine  Republic 
assemble  in  this  very  chamber,  and  take  a  vote  on  the 
question  whether  or  no  my  picture  be  moral — that  is, 
popular.  There  would  be  great  advantage  in  this  course. 
The  question  would  be  settled  with  mathematical  certainty 
by  counting  heads ;  for  the  voice  of  the  people  is,  as  ycu 
are  aware,  the  voice  of  God.' 


39a  THE  FORERUNNER 

Soderini  weighed  the  suggestion.  He  was  so  impressed 
by  the  virtue  of  the  black  and  white  balls  used  for  voting, 
that  it  never  occurred  to  him  a  mock  could  be  made  at 
the  mystery.  Presently,  however,  he  understood,  and  fixing 
his  eyes  on  the  painter,  stared  in  blank  astonishment,  almost 
terror.  Yet  he  quickly  recovered  himself.  Artists  are  known 
to  be  persons  unreliable  and  devoid  of  common  sense,  and  it 
ill  behoved  him  to  take  offence  at  this  painter  fellow's  gibe. 

Messer  Piero  did  not  pursue  the  subject ;  in  the  tone  of  a 
superior  addressing  a  dependent,  he  mentioned  that  Michel- 
angelo Buonarroti  had  received  an  order  to  paint  the  second 
wall  of  the  council  chamber,  and  curtly  took  his  leave. 
Leonardo  followed  him  with  his  eyes.  Sleek,  grey,  with 
crooked  legs  and  a  bent  back,  he  seemed  even  more  closely 
than  usual  to  resemble  a  rat. 

Ill 

On  leaving  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  Leonardo  paused  in  the 
piazza  before  Michelangelo's  'David.'  It  stood  as  if  on 
guard,  a  giant  of  white  marble,  relieved  against  the  back- 
ground of  dark  stone.  Young,  thin,  naked,  the  veins  swollen 
in  his  right  hand  which  held  the  sling,  his  left  arm  was 
raised  in  front  of  his  breast,  the  stone  within  the  hand.  His 
brows  were  knit,  his  gaze  far  away,  like  one  taking  aim. 
The  curls  upon  his  low  forehead  seemed  already  the  garland 
of  victory.  Leonardo  remembered  the  description  in  the 
Book  of  Kings ;  and  seeing  him  stand  there  where  Savonarola 
had  been  burned,  he  thought  of  the  prophet  Fra  Girolamo 
had  desired  in  vain,  the  hero  for  whom  Machiavelli  was  still 
waiting. 

In  this  work  of  his  rival's  Leonardo  recognised  the  ex- 
pression of  a  soul  great  as  his  own,  but  eternally  opposed 
to  it ;  opposed  as  action  is  to  contemplation,  passion  to  apathy, 
storm  to  tranquillity.  This  alien  force  attracted  him;  he 
felt  the  inevitable  fascination  of  something  new,  the  desire  to 
come  close  to  it,  to  study,  and  understand  it. 

Two  years  earlier,  among  the  building  stones  of  Santa 
Maria  del  Fiore,  lay  a  huge  block  of  white  marble,  spoilt  by 
an  unskilled  sculptor.  The  best  masters  had  refused  it, 
thinking  it  no  longer  good  for  anything.  It  had  been  offered 
to  Leonardo  himself,  and  with  his  usual  slowness  he  had 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         393 

meditated,  measured,  calculated,  hesitated.  Then  came 
another,  twenty-three  years  younger  than  he,  who  had  under- 
taken the  task  without  misgiving;  with  incredible  rapidity, 
working  by  night  as  well  as  by  day,  he  had  made  this  giant 
in  two  years  and  one  month.  Leonardo  had  worked  for  six 
years  at  the  clay  of  his  Colossus ;  he  dared  not  think  how 
long  he  would  have  required  for  a  marble  statue  like  this 
David. 

The  Florentines  had  proclaimed  Michelangelo  Leonardo's 
rival  in  the  art  of  sculpture,  and  the  young  man  had  not 
hesitated  to  accept  his  challenge.  Now  it  seemed  he  was 
about  to  place  himself  in  competition  with  the  older  master 
as  a  painter  also.  He  had  yet  hardly  taken  a  brush  in  his 
hand,  but  with  a  daring  which  might  seem  presumption,  he 
was  about  to  paint  the  second  war-picture  in  the  council 
chamber. 

Leonardo  had  met  his  youthful  rival  with  goodwill  and 
every  consideration;  but  Michelangelo  hated  him  with  all 
the  fire  of  his  impetuous  nature.  Leonardo's  calm  he  fancied 
contempt :  he  listened  to  calumnies,  he  sought  pretexts  for 
quarrels,  he  seized  every  occasion  to  damage  his  rival.  When 
the  '  David '  was  finished  the  best  painters  and  sculptors  were 
invited  by  the  Signoria  to  discuss  where  it  should  be  placed. 
Leonardo  agreed  with  Giuliano  da  San  Gallo,  the  architect, 
that  the  most  suitable  position  would  be  under  the  Loggia 
de'  Priori,  and  not,  as  others  suggested,  in  front  of  the  Palazzo 
della  Signoria.  Michelangelo  swore  that  Leonardo,  prompted 
by  envy,  wished  his  rival's  work  hidden  in  a  corner  where  no 
one  could  properly  see  it. 

Discussions  on  abstract  questions  were  at  this  time  much 
the  vogue,  and  on  one  occasion  a  company,  including  the 
brothers  Pollaiuoli,  the  aged  Botticelli,  Filippino  Lippi,  and 
Lorenzo  di  Credi,  assembled  in  Leonardo's  studio  to  debate 
whether  sculpture  or  painting  held  the  higher  place  among 
the  arts.  Leonardo  quickly,  with  a  whimsical  expression, 
gave  his  opinion  thus : — 

*  The  further  art  is  removed  from  a  handicraft  the  nearer 
it  approaches  perfection.  The  major  distinction  between 
the  two  arts  lies  in  the  fact  that  painting  demands  greater 
effort  of  mind,  sculpture  greater  effort  of  body.  The  shape, 
contained  like  a  kernel  in  the  block  of  marble,  is  slowly  set 
free  by  the  sculptor's  blows  of  chisel  and  mallet,  needing 


394  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  exertion  of  all  his  bodily  powers.  Great  fatigue  ensues, 
the  labourer  is  drenched  with  sweat,  which  mingling  with 
dust  becomes  a  miry  crust  upon  his  garments;  his  face  is 
smeared  and  covered  with  white  like  a  baker's,  his  studio 
is  filled  with  chips.  Whereas  the  painter,  perfectly  calm,  in 
elegant  habiliments,  seated  at  ease  in  his  chair,  plies  a  light 
brush  and  manipulates  pleasant  paints.  His  house  is  clean, 
and  quiet,  so  that  his  toil  can  be  sweetened  by  converse,  or 
music,  or  reading,  undisturbed  by  hammerings  or  scrapings/ 

These  words  came  to  the  ears  of  Michelangelo,  who 
imagined  them  aimed  at  himself.  He  took  occasion  to  make 
venomous  reply : — 

•  Let  this  Messer  da  Vinci,  a  kitchen-wench's  bastard,  be 
ashamed  of  dirty  work;  I,  the  heir  of  an  old  and  honourable 
house,  despise  neither  sweat  nor  mire.  The  dispute  is  foolish, 
for  all  the  arts  are  equal,  proceeding  from  one  source,  aiming 
at  one  goal.  He  who  maintains  that  painting  is  nobler  than 
sculpture  knows  no  more  of  either  than  my  serving-maid.' 

He  set  to  work  with  feverish  energy  on  his  picture  for  the 
council  chamber,  wishing  to  overtake  his  rival — a  feat  by  no 
means  difficult.  His  subject  was  an  incident  in  the  Pisan 
campaign :  a  sudden  attack  by  the  enemy  while  the  soldiers 
were  bathing.  The  men  hurry  to  the  bank,  scramble  out  of 
the  pleasant  waves,  draw  on  their  sweated  and  dusty  clothes, 
don  their  cuirasses  and  helmets,  which  are  burning  hot  under 
the  fiery  sunshine.  Michelangelo  thus  showed  war  as  a 
contrast  to  Leonardo's  representation :  not  as  { the  most 
bestial  of  madnesses,'  but  as  the  performance  of  hard  and 
manful  duty  to  the  denial  of  ease  and  pleasure ;  as  the  struggle 
of  heroes  for  the  greatness  and  glory  of  their  country. 

The  Florentines  watched  the  growth  of  the  two  pictures 
and  the  rivalry  between  the  artists  with  all  the  keenness  of 
spectators  at  a  raree  show;  and  as  strife  unconnected  with 
politics  seemed  to  them  tasteless  as  broth  without  salt,  they 
affirmed  that  Michelangelo  was  for  the  republic  against  the 
Medici,  Leonardo  for  the  Medici  against  the  republic.  The 
artistic  duel  now  became  intelligible  to  everybody;  the  town 
was  divided  into  two  parties;  and  men,  to  whom  art  was  a 
sealed  book,  declared  themselves  the  adherents  of  one  or 
other  of  the  two  artists  whose  works  had  become  the  ensigns 
of  hostile  camps.  Stones  were  thrown  secretly  at  the  '  David ' ; 
the  rich  accused  the  poor  of  this  outrage,  the  demagogues 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         395 

accused  the  substantial  burghers;  the  artists,  the  pupils; 
and  Buonarroti,  in  the  presence  of  the  Gonfaloniere,  asserted 
that  ruffians  had  been  hired  by  Leonardo  to  damage  his 
statue. 

One  day  Leonardo,  working  at  his  portrait  in  the  presence 
of  Boltraffio  and  Salaino,  said  to  Monna  Lisa : — 

1  Could  I  but  come  to  speech  with  Messer  Michelangelo, 
face  to  face,  as  I  speak  with  you,  madonna,  all  would 
be  explained,  and  no  trace  would  remain  of  this  stupid  quarrel. 
He  would  learn  that  I  am  not  his  enemy,  and  that  there  is 
no  man  living  could  love  him  better  than  I.' 

Madonna  Lisa  shook  her  head. 

'Nay,  Messer  Leonardo,  he  would  not  understand  you.' 

'Such  a  man  could  not  fail  to  understand.  The  mischief 
is  that  he  is  diffident  and  has  too  little  self-confidence.  He 
fears  and  tortures  himself  and  is  jealous,  because  he  does  not 
yet  know  his  own  strength.  It  is  folly  in  him.  I  would 
reassure  him.  What  has  he  to  fear  in  me?  I  have  seen  his 
sketch  for  the  'Soldiers  bathing*  and,  believe  me,  madonna, 
I  was  astounded,  and  could  scarce  believe  my  own  eyes.  No 
one  can  conceive  the  value  of  this  young  man,  nor  what 
he  will  rise  to.  Even  now  he  is  not  only  my  equal,  but 
stronger  than  I.  Deny  it  not,  madonna,  for  I  speak  what  I 
know  to  be  true :  he  is  my  superior.' 

She  smiled,  reflecting  his  expression  like  an  image  in  a 
mirror. 

One  day  in  Santa  Maria  del  Carmine,  in  the  Cappella 
Brancacci,  where  were  the  famous  frescoes  of  Tomaso 
Masaccio,  the  school  of  all  the  great  masters,  he  saw  a  lad, 
scarcely  more  than  a  boy,  studying  and  copying  as  he  had 
done  himself  in  his  youth.  He  wore  a  paint-stained  old 
black  frock,  clean  but  coarse  and  homespun  linen.  He  was 
tall  and  willowy,  with  a  slight  neck,  very  white  and  long, 
delicate  as  a  girl's.  His  face  was  oval,  clear  cut,  and 
pale,  with  a  somewhat  sensuous  beauty,  and  great  dark  eyes 
like  those  of  the  Umbrian  peasant  women  from  whom 
Perugino  painted  his  Madonnas,  eyes  with  no  depth  of 
thought,  deep  and  void  as  the  sky.  Leonardo  saw  the  youth 
a  second  time  in  the  Sala  del  Papa  at  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
where  his  own  cartoon  for  the  'Battle  of  Anghiari*  was 
exhibited.  This  the  lad  was  studying  and  copying  with 
no  less  care  than  he  had  bestowed  on  Masaccio's  frescoes. 


396  THE  FORERUNNER 

He  evidently  knew  Leonardo  by  sight,  but  did  not  venture 
to  speak  to  him. 

The  Master  addressed  him ;  and  then  hurriedly,  excitedly, 
and  with  many  blushes,  half-presumptuous  yet  childishly  art- 
less, the  boy  confessed  that  he  looked  on  Leonardo  as  his 
master,  as  the  greatest  of  all  Italian  masters,  whose  shoe's- 
latchet  Michelangelo  Buonarroti  was  not  worthy  to  unloose. 

Leonardo  examined  his  drawings,  and  after  further  con- 
verse, on  other  occasions,  became  convinced  that  here  was  a 
great  master  of  the  future. 

Sensitive  and  responsive  as  an  echo  to  all  voices,  sub- 
missive to  influence  as  a  woman,  he  at  present  imitated  both 
Perugino  and  Pinturicchio  (with  whom  he  had  recently  been 
working  in  the  library  at  Siena),  and  also  Leonardo;  but 
under  this  immaturity  the  latter  found  a  freshness  of  feeling 
in  him  superior  to  any  he  had  met.  And  the  lad  seemed  to 
have  already  fathomed  by  guesswork  the  deepest  mysteries  of 
art  and  life ;  had  surmounted  the  greatest  obstacles  as  if 
involuntarily,  lightly,  by  chance,  almost  in  play.  Every  gift 
seemed  to  have  been  bestowed  on  him  freely ;  he  knew  no 
searchings  of  heart,  no  weary  toil,  no  hesitation,  no  despairing 
efforts,  no  hopeless  puzzles,  such  as  had  always  been  to 
Leonardo  an  incubus  and  a  curse.  And  when  the  Master 
spoke  to  him  of  the  need  for  patient  study  of  nature,  and  of 
the  laws  of  painting,  the  youth  fixed  on  him  soft  wondering 
eyes,  and,  it  was  evident,  listened  merely  out  of  reverence  for 
the  great  man's  opinion. 

One  day  he  made  an  observation  which  surprised  Leonardo 
by  its  depth : — 

'I  have  noticed,'  he  said,  'that  while  one  is  painting  one 
should  not  think.     Everything  then  turns  out  better.' 

It  seemed  as  if  this  youth's  whole  being  was  a  proof  that 
the  perfect  harmony  of  reason  and  feeling,  of  love  and 
science,  which  the  Master  sought  so  ardently,  did  not,  nor 
could  not  exist.  And  in  face  of  the  modest  and  careless 
frankness  which  shone  in  those  unanxious  eyes,  Leonardo  felt 
greater  doubt  of  the  work  of  his  own  whole  life,  greater 
doubt  of  the  future  destiny  of  art,  than  had  ever  tormented 
him  when  confronted  by  the  rivalry  and  scorn  of  Michel- 
angelo. 

At  one  of  their  first  meetings  Leonardo  had  asked  the  lad 
his  name,  parentage  and  native  place. 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA- -1503-1506         397 

1 1  come  from  Urbino,'  he  replied  ;  *  my  father  is  Giovanni 
Sanzio  the  painter,  and  my  name,  Raphael.' 

IV 

The  evening  before  Leonardo's  departure  from  Florence  to 
mend  a  dam  which  had  burst  on  the  river  Arno,  he  was 
returning  from  a  visit  to  Machiavelli,  who  had  alarmed  him 
by  his  admissions  with  regard  to  Soderini. 

He  was  crossing  the  bridge  of  the  Santa  Trinita,  towards 
the  Via  Tornabuoni.  The  hour  was  late,  and  few  people 
were  about;  after  a  hot  day  a  shower  had  freshened  the 
air.  From  the  river  came  the  sharp  perfume  which  water 
acquires  in  the  warmth  of  summer;  the  moon  was  rising 
behind  the  dark  hill  of  San  Miniato.  On  the  bank  near  the 
Ponte  Vecchio  a  cluster  of  very  ancient  houses,  with  uneven 
balconies  and  wooden  supports,  were  reflected  in  the  dull 
green  water.  Behind  Monte  Albano  glittered  a  single  star. 
The  outline  of  Florence  was  cut  against  the  clear  sky  like  a 
golden  capital  letter  in  some  ancient  manuscript ;  an  outline 
unique  in  the  world,  familiar  to  Leonardo  as  the  outline  of  a 
human  face.  To  the  north  rose  the  ancient  belfry  of  Santa 
Croce,  near  it  the  straight  slender  stem  of  the  tower  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio;  then  Giotto's  marble  campanile,  and  the 
red  cupola  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore,  like  the  gigantic  expand- 
ing blossom  of  the  purple  lily,  the  flower  of  Florence  on  her 
standards  and  escutcheons.  All  Florence,  bathed  in  moon- 
light seemed  a  huge  silver  flower. 

Leonardo  noted  that  every  city  has  its  own  especial 
perfume;  that  of  Florence  was  a  mingling  of  the  scent  of 
iris  flowers,  and  the  faint  odour  of  dust  and  damp  and  old 
varnish  which  belongs  to  ancient  pictures. 

His  thoughts  veered  to  her  who  was  becoming  their  constant 
preoccupation — Monna  Lisa  Gioconda.  He  knew  scarce 
more  of  her  life  than  did  Giovanni  his  pupil;  it  was  less 
an  annoyance  than  a  perpetual  astonishment  to  him  to 
reflect  that  she  had  a  husband — Messer  Francesco,  so  tall 
and  lean,  with  a  wart  on  his  cheek,  thick  eyebrows;  a 
positive  soul;  whose  talk  was  of  Sicilian  cattle  and  the  tax 
upon  sheepskins.  There  were  moments  in  which  Leonardo 
rejoiced  in  her  ethereal  charm,  which  seemed  above  common 
humanity,  yet  was  more  real  to  him  than  aught  belonging  to 


398  THE  FORERUNNER 

everyday  life.  There  were  other  moments  in  which  he  acutely 
felt  the  beauty  of  the  living  woman. 

Lisa  was  not  one  of  those  celebrated  by  the  poetasters  as 
dotte  eroine  (learned  heroines).  She  never  displayed  her 
knowledge  of  books;  only  by  chance  he  found  out  that 
she  read  both  Latin  and  Greek.  She  spoke  so  simply  that 
many  imagined  her  stupid.  But  Leonardo  found  in  her 
what  is  most  rare,  especially  among  women,  instinctive 
wisdom.  Sometimes  by  a  chance  sentence  she  would  reveal 
herself  so  near,  so  akin  to  him  in  spirit,  that  he  felt  her  his  one 
and  eternal  friend,  the  sister  of  his  soul.  At  these  moments 
he  would  fain  have  overpassed  the  magic  circle  which  divides 
contemplation  from  life ;  but  such  desires  he  quenched  at 
once.  Was  this  love  which  united  them?  Platonic  ravings, 
languid  sighs  of  ideal  lovers,  syrupy  sonnets  in  the  Petrarchan 
style,  had  never  excited  in  him  anything  but  amusement  or 
boredom.  Equally  alien  to  his  nature  was  the  passion  which 
most  men  call  love.  Just  as  he  ate  no  meat,  because  it 
seemed  to  him  repulsive,  so  he  refrained  from  women, 
because  all  material  possession — in  marriage  or  outside  it 
— seemed  to  him  coarse.  He  avoided  it  as  he  avoided 
the  shambles,  neither  blaming  nor  approving,  acknowledging 
the  law  of  natural  struggle  for  hunger  or  for  love,  but  refusing 
to  take  any  part  in  it  himself,  and  obeying  a  purer  law  of 
chastity  and  love. 

Yet  even  if  he  had  loved  her,  what  more  perfect  union 
with  the  beloved  could  he  have  wished  than  in  this  secret 
and  mystic  intercourse,  in  the  creation  of  this  immortal 
image,  this  new  being,  born  of  them  both,  as  a  child  of 
its  parents,  in  which  he  and  she  were  one?  Nevertheless 
he  felt  that  even  in  this  mystic  union,  stainless  as  it 
was,  there  was  danger — it  might  be  greater  danger  than 
in  the  bond  of  ordinary  fleshly  love.  They  walked  on  the 
verge  of  a  precipice  where  none  had  walked  before,  resisting 
the  vertigo  and  the  fatal  attraction  of  the  abyss.  Between 
them  were  simple  words,  vague  and  uncompleted  phrases, 
through  which  their  secret  showed  as  the  sun  shines  through 
the  morning  mist.  At  times  he  thought,  What  if  the  mist 
should  scatter,  and  the  blinding  sun  shine  out  which  kills 
mystery,  dissolves  all  phantoms?  What  if  he  or  she  should 
prove  unequal  to  the  strain,  should  overstep  the  magic  circle, 
materialise  imagination  into  fact,  contemplation   into  life? 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         399 

Had  he  the  right  to  test  a  human  soul,  the  soul  of  his  life-long 
friend,  his  spiritual  sister,  as  he  tested  the  laws  of  mechanics, 
the  structure  of  plants,  the  action  of  poisons?  Would  she 
not  revolt,  cast  him  from  her  with  contempt  and  hatred  ? 

Again  at  times  he  fancied  he  was  subjecting  her  to  a  slow 
and  a  terrible  death.  Her  submissiveness  alarmed  him;  it 
seemed  limitless,  like  his  own  eternal  search  for  knowledge, 
the  delicate  yet  penetrating  scrutiny  to  which  he  subjected 
her.  Sooner  or  later  he  would  have  to  decide  what  she  was 
to  him,  a  woman  or  a  spirit.  He  had  been  hoping  that 
temporary  absence  would  postpone  this  inevitable  decision, 
and  for  this  reason  was  glad  to  be  leaving  Florence. 

But  now  that  the  moment  had  come,  that  separation  was 
imminent,  he  realised  that  he  had  been  mistaken,  and  that 
instead  of  deferring,  his  departure  must  hasten  the  decision. 

Absorbed  in  these  thoughts,  he  did  not  notice  that  he  had 
wandered  into  a  lonely  blind  alley,  and  on  looking  about  him 
did  not  at  once  recognise  where  he  was.  Giotto's  campanile 
appearing  above  the  houses  showed  he  was  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
cathedral.  One  side  of  the  narrow  street  was  lost  in  blackest 
shadow,  the  other  was  white  under  the  rays  of  the  moon.  A 
distant  light  glowed  red.  It  came  from  one  of  the  loggie 
characteristic  of  Florence,  with  a  balcony  and  semi-circular 
arches  on  slender  pillars;  a  company  in  masks  and  cloaks 
were  singing  a  serenade,  to  the  gentle  tinkling  of  a  lute. 

It  was  the  old  love-song,  composed  by  Lorenzo  II 
Magnifico,  which  had  once  sounded  in  the  carnival  proces- 
sion ;  a  melancholy  yet  joyous  melody,  pleasant  to  Leonardo's 
ears  because  he  had  know  it  in  his  youth. 

Quanto  e  bella  giovinezza  ! 
Ma  sen  fug«e  tmtavia 
Chi  vuol  esser  lieto  sia 
Di  doman  non  v'e  certezza. 

(Fair-fleeting  Youth  must  snatch  at  happiness: 
He  knows  not  if  to-morrow  curse  or  bless.) 

The  last  line  lingered  sadly  in  his  ears  with  mournful  fore- 
boding. 

Already  on  the  threshold  of  old  age,  and  approaching 
darkness  and  solitude,  had  not  Fate  sent  him  at  last  a 
living  soul,  a  kindred  soul?  Must  he  repulse  it?  must 
he  deny  it?  sacrifice  life  for  contemplation,  as  he  had  so 
often  done  before?  renounce  the  near  for  the  faraway,  the 


4oo  THE  FORERUNNER 

real  for  the  ideal?  Which  was  he  to  chose,  the  true  and 
living  and  mortal  Gioconda  or  the  immortal,  which  had  no 
material  existence?  They  were  equally  dear  to  him,  yet  he 
must  choose  between  them;  choose  at  once,  for  her  sake. 
But  his  will  was  weak.  He  could  arrive  at  no  decision,  and 
wandered  on  aimlessly  through  the  streets,  debating,  debating 
with  himself. 

Presently  he  reached  the  house  of  Piero  Martelli,  where  he 
lodged.  The  doors  were  shut,  the  lights  extinguished.  He 
raised  the  hammer  hung  on  a  chain,  and  knocked.  The 
porter  did  not  come.  Repeated  blows  were  only  answered 
by  echoes  from  the  sounding  arches  of  the  stone  staircase. 
Echoes  died  away  and  silence  succeeded,  seeming  the  more 
profound  for  the  brightness  of  the  moonlight. 

A  clock  boomed  from  a  neighbouring  tower.  The  heavy 
measured  clanging  told  of  the  silent  and  dreadful  flight  of 
time,  of  the  darkness  and  loneliness  of  age,  of  the  past 
which  could  never  return.  And  long  did  the  last  clang 
vibrate  in  the  moonlit  stillness,  quivering  on  the  air,  now 
weakening,  now  strengthening  again  in  ever  widening  waves 
of  sound,  as  if  repeating — 

Di  doman  non  v'&  certezza. 


The  next  day,  at  her  habituar  hour,  Monna  Lisa  came  to 
the  studio  for  the  first  time  unaccompanied.  She  knew  it  was 
their  last  interview.  It  was  a  brilliant  morning,  and  Leonardo 
lowered  the  canvas  curtain  to  produce  that  dim  and  tender 
light,  transparent  as  submarine  shadows,  which  gave  her  face 
its  greatest  charm. 

They  were  alone. 

He  kept  working  on  in  silence,  calm  and  absorbed,  forget- 
ting his  thoughts  of  the  previous  night,  forgetting  the  parting, 
the  inevitable  choice.  Past  and  Future  had  alike  vanished 
from  his  memory;  time  had  come  to  a  standstill ;  it  seemed 
as  if  she  had  always  sat,  and  would  ever  thus  sit  before  him, 
with  that  calm  strange  smile.  What  he  could  not  do  in  life 
he  did  by  imagination;  he  blended  the  two  images  in  one — 
mingled  the  reality  and  its  reflection — the  living  woman  and 
the  immortal. 

He  had  now  the  sense  of  a  great   deliverance      He   no 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         401 

longer  either  pitied  her  or  feared  her.  He  knew  her  sub- 
missiveness,  that  she  would  accept  all,  endure  all ;  die,  perhaps, 
but  never  revolt.  And  momently  he  looked  at  her  with  that 
curiosity  which  had  taken  him  to  the  execution  of  the  con- 
demned, that  he  might  watch  the  last  shudders  of  fear  on  the 
dying  faces. 

Suddenly  he  fancied  that  a  strange  shadow,  as  of  an  un- 
bidden thought,  which  he  had  not  evoked,  which  he  wished 
away,  appeared  upon  her  countenance,  like  the  cloud  of 
human  breath  upon  the  surface  of  a  mirror.  To  preserve  her, 
to  recall  her  anew  to  the  Type,  within  the  fatidic  circle,  to 
banish  from  her  this  human  shadow,  he  related  gravely,  like 
a  magician  pronouncing  an  incantation,  one  of  his  mystic 
tales. 

'  Unable  to  resist  the  desire  of  beholding  new  forms,  the 
secret  creations  of  nature,  I  at  length  reached  the  cavern, 
and  there  at  the  entrance  stood  still  in  terror.  I  stooped, 
the  left  hand  on  the  right  knee,  and  shading  my  eyes  with  my 
hand  to  accustom  myself  to  the  darkness,  I  presently  took 
heart  and  entered,  and  moved  forward  for  several  steps. 
Then,  frowning,  straining  my  sight  to  the  utmost,  I  unwit- 
tingly changed  my  course  and  wandered  hither  and  thither  in 
the  darkness,  feeling  my  way  and  groping  after  the  definite. 
But  the  obscurity  was  overpowering,  and  when  I  had  passed 
some  time  in  it,  Fear  and  Curiosity  contended  most  mightily 
within  me :  fear  of  searching  that  dark  cavern,  and  curiosity 
after  its  secret.' 

He  was  silent.  The  unwonted  shadow  lay  still  upon  her 
face. 

*  Which  of  the  two  feelings  gained  the  day  ?  •  La  Gioconda 
murmured. 

1  Curiosity/ 

'And  you  learned  the  stupendous  secret?' 

•  I  learned  .  .  .  what  could  be  learned.' 
'And  will  reveal  it  to  men?' 

'I  would  not,  nor  could  not,  reveal  all.  But  I  would 
inspire  them  also  with  curiosity  strong  enough  to  vanquish 
fear.' 

'  And  if  curiosity  be  not  enough,  Messer  Leonardo  ? '  she 
said  slowly,  an  unwonted  fire  in  her  eyes;    'if  something 
further,  a  profounder  feeling,  were  needed  to  lay  bare  the 
cavern's  last  and  greatest  treasure  ? ' 
2C 


402  THE  FORERUNNER 

And  she  turned  toward  him  a  smile  he  had  never  seen 
before. 

1  What  more  is  needed  ?  '  he  asked. 

She  was  silent.  Just  then  a  slender  blinding  ray  shone 
through  a  rent  in  the  curtain;  the  dimness  vanished;  the 
mystery,  the  clear  shadows,  tender  as  distant  music,  fled. 

1  You  leave  to-morrow  ?  '  she  said  suddenly. 

1  No.     To-night/ 

'  I,  too,  am  soon  departing.' 

The  artist  looked  at  her  steadily,  attempted  speech,  and 
said  nothing.  He  devined  her  meaning  ;  that  she  would  not 
stay  in  Florence  without  him. 

I  Messer  Francesco,'  she  continued,  *  goes  presently  for 
three  months  to  Calabria.  I  have  asked  him  to  take  me 
with  him.' 

He  frowned.  This  sunshine  was  not  to  his  mind ;  the 
fountain  had  been  ghostly  white  ;  now  it  had  taken  the  rain- 
bow hues  of  life.  Leonardo  felt  that  he  was  returning  to  life, 
timid,  weak,  pitiable. 

*  No  matter, '  said  Monna  Lisa,  *  draw  closer  the  curtain. 
It  is  early  yet.     I  am  not  tired.' 

I I  have  painted  enough/  he  said,  throwing  down  his  brush. 

*  You  will  not  finish  my  portrait  ? ' 

*  Why  not  ? '  he  cried  hastily,  as  if  alarmed.  '  Will  you  not 
come  to  me  when  you  return  ? ' 

1 1  will  come.  But  shall  I  be  the  same  ?  You  have  told 
me  that  faces,  especially  the  faces  of  women,  quickly  change/ 

c  I  long  to  finish  it.  But  sometimes  to  me  it  seems 
impossible  ? ' 

*  Impossible  ?  wondered  La  Gioconda.  '  Ay,  they  tell  me  you 
finish  nothing  because  you  are  always  seeking  the  impossible/ 

In  these  words  he  fancied  a  tender  reproach. 
'  The  moment  has  come  !'  he  thought. 
She  rose  and  said  with  her  usual  calm : — 

*  Farewell,  Messer  Leonardo.  I  wish  you  a  good  journey/ 
He  also  had  risen,  and  looking  at  her  he  saw  again  helpless 
entreaty  and  reproach  on  her  face.  He  knew  that  this 
moment  was  irrevocable  for  both — final  and  solemn  as  death. 
He  felt  he  must  break  this  pregnant  silence,  yet  no  words  came 
to  him.  The  more  he  forced  his  will  to  find  a  solution,  the 
more  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  powerlessness  and  the 
profundity  of  the  abyss  which  must  divide  them.      Monna 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         403 

Lisa  still  smiled  her  quiet  smile ;  that  calmness,  that  bright- 
ness, seemed  to  him  now  the  smile  of  the  dead.  Intolerable 
pity  filled  his  heart  and  weakened  him  still  more. 

She  stretched  out  her  hand ;  he  took  it  and  kissed  it  for 
the  first  time  since  he  had  known  her.  As  he  did  so  she 
bent  quickly,  and  he  felt  that  La  Gioconda  touched  his  hair 
with  her  lips. 

'  May  God  have  you  in  his  keeping/  she  said  simply. 

When  he  recovered  from  his  wonder — she  was  gone. 
Around  him  was  the  dead  silence  of  a  summer  afternoon, 
more  menacing  than  midnight.  Again  he  heard  the  heavy 
measured  clanging  of  the  clock,  telling  of  the  irremediable 
flight  of  time,  of  the  darkness  and  loneliness  of  age,  of  the 
past,  which  can  return  no  more.  And  as  the  last  vibrations 
died  away  the  words  of  the  plaintive  love  song  echoed  in  his 
ears : — 

'  Di  doman  non  v'e  certezza. ' 

'  And  count  not  on  the  day  to  come* 

VI 

Learning  that  Messer  Giocondo  was  not  returning  from 
Calabria  till  October,  Leonardo  deferred  his  return  to  Florence 
for  ten  days  that  he  might  not  reach  the  city  till  Madonna 
Lisa  was  there.  He  counted  the  hours  till  that  moment 
should  arrive;  superstitious  dread  oppressed  his  heart  when 
he  remembered  that  accident  might  easily  prolong  the  separa- 
tion. He  strove  not  to  think;  he  asked  no  one  for  news  lest 
he  should  hear  something  disappointing. 

At  last  the  day  came,  and  he  reached  Florence  early  in  the 
morning.  Autumnal,  damp  and  dull,  the  city  yet  seemed 
especially  fair.  It  spoke  to  him  of  La  Gioconda.  It  was  one 
of  her  days ;  misty,  transparent,  with  subdued  light,  as  of 
sunlight  seen  through  water. 

He  no  longer  asked  himself  how  they  would  meet,  what  he 
should  say,  nor  how  he  must  act  that  they  might  part  no 
more,  that  he  might  keep  her  for  ever  as  his  only  friend,  the 
sister  of  his  soul. 

'Things  turn  out  best  when  one  does  not  think  too  much. 
The  great  thing  is,  not  to  think,'  he  said  to  himself,  quoting  the 
lad  Raphael.  '  I  will  question  her;  and  she  will  tell  me  all 
which  that  day  we  left  unsnid;  she  will  explain  what  more 


4o4  THE  FORERUNNER 

than  curiosity  is  necessary  if  one  is  to  discover  the  marvel  of 
the  cavern.' 

Gladness  filled  his  soul  as  if  he  were  a  boy  of  sixteen  with 
his  life  before  him  ;  yet  deep  down  under  this  gladness  there 
lingered  a  half  unconscious  presentiment  of  mishap. 

In  the  evening  he  visited  Machiavelli,  intending  to  go  to 
Messer  Giocondo's  house  next  day.  Impatience,  however, 
overcame  him,  and  he  decided  to  call  at  once  and  ask  for 
news  from  the  porter  of  Madonna  Lisa's  safe  arrival.  He 
went  down  the  Via  Tornabuoni  towards  the  Ponte  Santa 
Trinita,  the  same  route,  though  in  the  opposite  direction, 
which  he  had  followed  the  night  before  his  departure.  The 
weather  had  suddenly  changed,  as  often  happens  in  Florence 
on  autumn  evenings.  The  north  wind,  piercing  as  a  knife, 
blew  down  the  valley  of  the  Mugnone,  and  the  crest  of  the 
Mugello  was  whitened  with  snow.  In  the  town  it  was  raining  ; 
but  just  above  the  horizon  there  remained  a  narrow  strip  of 
clear  sky,  and  from  it  the  sun  suddenly  burst  forth,  flooding 
the  wet  streets  and  shining  roofs  and  the  faces  of  the  passers- 
by  with  a  harsh  yellow  light.  The  rain  seemed  like  copper 
dust,  and  the  glass  of  distant  windows  glowed  like  live  coals. 

Near  the  bridge  and  opposite  the  church  of  Santa  Trinita, 
in  the  angle  formed  by  the  river  bank  and  the  Via  Tornabuoni, 
rose  the  imposing  Palazzo  degli  Spini,  built  of  large  warm- 
grey  stones,  with  barred  lancet  windows  and  castellated  roof 
like  a  fortress.  Down  below  was  the  customary  row  of  stone 
benches,  where  the  citizens  congregated  to  tell  the  news,  to 
sun  or  to  shade  themselves,  to  play  at  dice  or  draughts. 
There  was  a  loggia  at  the  other  side  of  the  palace,  looking  out 
upon  the  Arno. 

As  he  passed,  Leonardo  saw  in  this  loggia  a  group  of  per- 
sons, strangers  to  him  for  the  most  part,  disputing  so 
vehemently  that  they  did  not  notice  the  storm. 

*  Messer  Leonardo !  come  hither  and  resolve  our  ques- 
tion ! '  they  called  to  him.  He  stopped.  The  dispute  was 
about  certain  lines  in  the  thirty-fourth  canto  of  Dante's 
Inferno,  where  Lucifer  is  described  buried  breast-high  in  the 
ice  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  accursed  Pit. 

The  matter  was  expounded  to  Leonardo  by  one  of  the 
disputants,  a  rich  old  wool  merchant.  The  artist,  however, 
was  but  half  attending,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  man 
coming  along  the  Lungarno  Acciaioli.     This  person  walked 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         405 

heavily,  shambling  like  a  bear :  "he  was  bent  and  bony,  with 
a  large  head,  black  hair,  and  ill-shaped  beard;  his  clothes 
were  poor  and  carelessly  thrown  on.  He  had  a  broad-browed 
heavy  face,  with  projecting  ears  and  a  broken  nose.  His 
small  eyes  dilated  and  glowed  strangely  under  excitement,  and 
much  night-work  had  reddened  his  eyelids.  Indeed  he  was 
said  to  work  preferably  in  underground  darkness,  with  a 
small  round  lamp  attached  to  his  forehead,  like  a  new  Cyclops. 
It  was  Michelangelo. 

1  Give  us  your  opinion,'  urged  the  disputants  ot  Leonardo. 

*I  have  heard,' replied  the  painter,  'that  Messer  Buonarroti 
is  a  student  of  the  great  Alighieri.  Ask  him ;  he  will  answer 
your  question  better  than  I.' 

For  Leonardo  had  always  hoped  that  his  difference  with 
Michelangelo  would  die  a  natural  death ;  and  he  was  anxious 
for  an  occasion  which  would  bring  them  to  speech  together. 

The  younger  man,  hearing  his  name  pronounced,  stopped 
and  raised  his  eyes.  He  was  reserved  and  shy,  even  to  wild- 
ness,  dreading  the  stare  of  strangers,  and  fancying  that  they 
scorned  his  ugliness,  which  he  himself  was  never  able  to  for- 
get. Now  he  looked  suspiciously  at  the  company  in  the 
loggia  ;  but  when  he  saw  Leonardo's  smile,  and  his  piercing 
glance  bent  down  upon  him,  for  the  older  man  was  much  the 
taller  of  the  two,  shyness  changed  into  rage.  He  grew 
pale  and  red  by  turns;  words  choked  him;  but  at  last 
he  blurted  out : — 

1  Explain  it  yourself,  most  intelligent  of  sages,  sold  to  the 
Lombards  !  Books  are  your  proper  pastime ;  you  who  spent 
sixteen  years  trying  to  hatch  a  clay  horse,  and  when  you  tried 
to  cast  it  in  bronze  threw  up  the  task  in  despair.'  He  knew 
he  was  speaking  outrageously  ;  but  such  was  his  fury  that  no 
words  seemed  to  him  sufficiently  insulting  to  hurl  at  his  rival. 

Leonardo  made  no  reply ;  he  looked  the  other  full  in  the 
face,  and  the  bystanders  also  were  silent,  watching  the  two 
men. 

Before  the  violence  of  Buonarroti,  Leonardo's  calm  almost 
feminine  smile,  tinged  with  sadness,  suggested  weakness.  But 
he  himself  remembered  Monna  Lisa's  words,  that  Michel- 
angelo would  never  pardon  him  for  his  gift  of  that  quietness 
which  is  mightier  than  storm. 

Michelangelo  finding  no  more  words  waved  his  hand, 
turned  quickly,  and  went  on  his  way,  with  his  shambling  gait, 


4o6  THE  FORERUNNER 

his  dull  unconscious  habit  of  growling,  his  bent  head  and 
bowed  shoulders,  upon  which  seemed  to  rest  some  superhuman 
burden.  Soon  he  disappeared  as  if  dissolved  into  the  turbid 
copper-coloured  rain  and  the  wild  and  threatening  sunlight. 

Leonardo  walked  on.  On  the  bridge  one  of  the  company 
in  the  loggia  of  the  Palazzo  Spini  overtook  him — a  little  man 
with  the  aspect  of  a  Jew,  though  a  pure-blooded  Florentine, 
known  to  Leonardo  as  a  scandal-monger.  The  painter 
crossed  the  bridge,  the  other  running  by  his  side,  talking 
of  Michelangelo,  and  trying  to  force  Leonardo., into  some 
adverse  criticism  of  his  rival,  which  no  doubt  he  intended 
to  repeat  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  Leonardo,  however, 
refused  to  be  drawn  into  this  trap,  and  remained  silent. 

The  intruder  was  not  to  be  shaken  off. 

'  Tell  me,  Messere,'  he  said,  '  have  you  yet  finished  your 
portrait  of  La  Gioconda?' 

*I  have  not,'  answered  the  painter.  'Why  are  you  in- 
terested ?  ■ 

1  Nay,  I  was  only  considering  the  matter.  For  three  years 
you  have  laboured  at  one  picture,  and  you  say  it  is  still 
incomplete.  But  to  us  ignorant  amateurs  it  seems  already 
perfection,  and  we  can  conceive  of  nothing  further  to  be 
done.' 

And  he  smiled  obsequiously.  Leonardo  would  have  liked 
to  take  the  little  man  by  the  collar  and  fling  him  into  the 
river. 

'And  what  will  you  do  now?'  continued  the  irrepressible 
one .  '  But  perhaps  you  have  not  heard,  Messer  Leonardo  ? ' 

Through  his  aversion  the  artist  felt  a  spasm  of  dread.  The 
other  had  evidently  something  on  his  tongue;  his  eyes 
danced,  his  hands  shook.  He  seemed  like  some  noxious 
insect. 

'  Oh,  Santo  Iddio  benedetto  1  *  he  exclaimed ;  '  forsooth  you 
only  returned  to  Florence  this  morning,  so  the  news  may  not 
have  reached  you.  Poor  Messer  Giocondo !  to  be  thrice 
widowed !  Conceive  what  bad  luck  !  'Tis  now  a  month 
since  Madonna  Lisa,  by  the  will  of  Heaven,  expired ! ' 

Darkness  fell  upon  Leonardo's  eyes;  for  a  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  he  must  swoon.  But  the  keen  inquisitive 
gaze  of  his  tormentor  helped  him  to  a  superhuman  effort  of 
self-control ;  he  turned  pale,  but  his  face  remained  inscrutable. 
The  other,  disappointed,  presently  took  his  leave.     Left  alone, 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         407 

Leonardo  gradually  recovered  his  composure.  His  first 
thought  was  that  the  busybody  had  lied ;  inventing  the  evil 
tidings  on  purpose  to  see  what  effect  they  would  produce  on 
the  artist  whose  name  had  long  been  whispered  as  a  lover  of 
La  Gioconda's.  It  was  incredible  that  she  could  really  he 
dead. 

Before  nightfall,  however,  he  had  learned  all.  Madonna 
Lisa,  victim,  said  some,  of  a  contagious  malady  of  the  throat, 
had  died  at  the  obscure  town  of  Lagonero,  on  the  return 
journey  from  Calabria  to  Florence. 

VII 

The  attempt  to  divert  the  Arno  from  Pisa  ended  in  disaster. 
Floods  destroyed  the  works,  and  turned  the  blooming  low- 
land into  a  pestilential  swamp,  where  the  workmen  died  of 
malaria.  The  labour,  the  money,  the  lives  had  been 
expended  for  naught :  the  Ferrarese  engineers  threw  the 
blame  upon  Soderini,  Machiavelli,  and  Leonardo.  They 
were  placed  under  a  ban,  and  their  acquaintances  turned 
from  them  in  the  streets.     Niccolb  fell  ill  of  vexation. 

Two  years  before  this,  Leonardo's  father,  Ser  Piero  da 
Vinci,  notary  of  the  palace  of  the  Podesta,  had  died  at  the 
age  of  eighty. 

In  the  matter  of  inheritance  Ser  Piero  had  irequently 
expressed  an  intention  of  placing  Leonardo  on  an  equal  foot- 
ing with  his  legitimate  sons.  They  refused  to  execute  his 
will.  Leonardo's  affairs  were  at  this  time  much  involved, 
and  he  was  induced  to  assent  to  the  proposal  of  one  of  the 
Hebrew  usurers,  from  whom  he  had  borrowed  on  the  security 
of  his  expectations,  that  he  should  sell  him  his  claim  on  the 
paternal  inheritance.  A  lawsuit  followed  which  lasted  for 
six  years.  Taking  advantage  of  Leonardo's  unpopularity,  his 
brothers  poured  oil  on  the  flames,  accusing  him  of  sorcery, 
atheism,  high  treason  during  his  service  with  Caesar  Borgia,  and 
violation  of  tombs  by  digging  up  corpses  for  dissection ;  they 
even  insulted  the  memory  of  his  dead  mother,  Caterina,  and 
revived  the  twenty-year-old  slander,  accusing  him  of  vice. 

In  addition  to  all  these  trials  was  added  the  failure  of  the 
picture  in  the  Council  Chamber.  Notwithstanding  his 
experience  with  regard  to  the  Cenacolo,  he  had  used  oil 
paints  also  for  the  '  Battle  of  Anghiari,'  though  with  what  he 


4o8  THE  FORERUNNER 

believed  an  improved  method.  When  the  work  was  half 
finished  he  attempted  to  hasten  the  fixing  of  the  paint  in  the 
plaster  by  means  of  a  great  fire  in  a  brazier  before  the  picture. 
But  the  heat  acted  only  on  the  lower  part  of  the  surface ;  the 
varnish  and  paint  higher  up  would  not  dry. 

After  many  fruitless  experiments  he  realised  that  the  second 
attempt  at  wall-painting  in  oil  was  unsuccessful  as  the  first, 
and  that  the  '  Battle '  would  fade  away  as  surely  as  the  *  Last 
Supper.' 

Once  more,  in  Michelangelo's  words,  he  was  obliged  to 
throw  up  his  task  in  despair. 

The  picture  troubled  him  more  than  the  Pisan  canal 
or  the  fraternal  lawsuit.  Soderini  had  harassed  him  with 
demands  for  mercantile  exactness  in  the  carrying  out  of  the 
order  for  the  fresco,  pressed  for  completion  within  a  given 
time,  threatened  him  with  penalties,  finally  accused  him  openly 
of  having  misappropriated  public  money.  Yet  when  Leonardo, 
having  borrowed  from  his  friends,  proposed  to  restore  all  he 
had  received  from  the  treasury,  Messer  Piero  refused  to 
accept  his  offer,  and  meanwhile  was  not  ashamed  to  write  to 
the  Seigneur  Charles  d'Amboise,  governor  of  Lombardy,  who 
was  negotiating  for  the  transfer  of  the  painter  from  Florence 
to  Milan: — 

'The  conduct  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  has  not  been  honour- 
able: for  having  received  a  large  sum  for  the  execution  of 
a  great  work,  he  abandoned  it  when  he  had  completed  but  a 
very  little,  and  in  this  matter  had  acted  as  a  traitor  to  the 
republic' 

One  winter  night  Leonardo  sat  alone  in  his  working  room. 
The  wind  howled  in  the  chimney,  the  walls  shook,  the  candle 
flickered,  the  stuffed  bird,  suspended  from  a  wooden  bar, 
swayed  as  if  attempting  to  fly ;  above  the  bookshelf  the 
familiar  spider  ran  in  alarm  about  his  web.  Drops  of  rain 
battered  the  window  like  the  knocks  of  one  wishing  to  enter. 

After  a  day  spent  in  working  for  his  livelihood,  Leonardo 
felt  exhausted,  as  by  a  night  of  fever.  He  tried  to  employ 
himself  by  scientific  study,  by  drawing  a  caricature,  by 
reading;  but  everything  fell  from  his  hands.  He  had  no 
inclination  to  sleep,  and  the  whole  night  was  before  him. 

He  looked  at  the  piles  of  books,  at  the  crucibles,  the 
retorts,  tb  e  bottles  containing  monstrosities  preserved  in  spirit ; 
at  the  brass  quadrant.;,  the  globes,  the  apparatus  for  the  study 


MONNA  LISA  GIOCONDA— 1503-1506         409 

of  mechanics,  astronomy,  physics,  hydraulics,  optics,  and 
anatomy.  An  unwonted  repugnance  to  them  all  filled  his 
soul.  Was  not  he  the  fellow  of  yonder  old  spider  in  the 
dark  corner  above  the  mouldy  books,  the  human  bones,  the 
limbs  of  lifeless  machines?  What  was  left  to  him,  what  lay 
between  him  and  death,  between  him  and  utter  oblivion 
except  certain  sheets  of  paper,  which  he  was  covering  with 
writing  that  no  one  could  read?  And  he  remembered  his 
happiness  when  as  a  child  he  had  climbed  the  heights  of 
Monte  Albano,  had  seen  the  flocks  of  cranes,  had  smelt  the 
freshness  of  spring,  had  gazed  at  the  fair  city  of  Florence, 
lying  in  the  sunlight  haze  like,  an  amethyst,  so  small  that  it 
could  be  framed  between  two  branches  of  juniper.  Yes,  he 
had  been  happy;  thinking  of  nothing,  knowing  nothing. 

Was  the  whole  labour  of  his  life  a  mockery?  Was  Love, 
after  all,  not  the  daughter  of  Knowledge  ? 

He  listened  to  the  howling,  the  shrieking,  the  roaring  of 
the  storm,  and  he  remembered  Machiavelli's  words :  ■  The 
most  fearful  thing  in  life  is  not  poverty  nor  care,  sickness 
nor  sorrow,  nor  death  itself.     It  is  weariness  of  spirit.' 

And  still  the  inhuman  voice  of  the  night  wind  spoke  of 
things  unavoidable  yet  unintelligible  to  the  mind  of  man;  of 
the  loneliness,  the  blackness  of  utter  darkness  on  the  bosom 
of  old  Chaos,  mother  of  all  that  is ;  of  the  boundless 
weariness  of  the  spirit  of  the  world.  Leonardo  rose,  took 
a  candle,  went  into  the  next  room,  uncovered  a  picture 
standing  on  an  easel  and  veiled  with  a  heavy  drapery  like 
a  shroud.    It  was  the  portrait  of  Monna  Lisa  Gicconda. 

He  had  not  looked  at  it  since  their  parting.  Now  it 
seemed  that  he  saw  it  for  the  first  time  ;  such  vigour  of  life 
was  in  it  that  he  trembled  before  his  own  creation.  He 
remembered  old-world  traditions  of  magic  portraits  which,  if 
pierced  by  a  needle,  caused  the  death  of  the  living  originals. 
In  this  case  had  he  not  done  the  contrary,  taken  life  from 
the  living  woman  to  give  it  to  the  dead  ? 

It  was  all  vivid  and  exact,  to  the  last  fold  of  her  dress,  to 
the  little  stars  of  the  delicate  embroidery  garnishing  the 
opening  round  her  neck.  It  seemed  as  if  the  white  bosom 
heaved,  the  blood  beat  waim  in  the  arteries,  the  expression 
of  the  face  changed.  Yet  was  she  spectral,  far  oft,  alien ; 
more  antique,  in  her  deathless  youth,  than  the  cliffs  in  the 
picture  background — strange,  sky-blue  rocks,  like  stalactites, 


4io  THE  FORERUNNER 

that  seemed  visions  of  a  world  long  extinct.  Ah !  and  the 
waves  of  her  hair  fell  from  under  the  dark  transparent  veil, 
by  the  same  laws  of  divine  mechanics  as  fell  the  waves  of 
water  in  the  cataract !  It  was  only  now,  when  he  had  lost 
her,  that  he  knew  the  charm  of  Monna  Lisa.  Hers  was  the 
charm  which  he  had  sought  in  nature;  the  secret  of  the 
universe  was  the  secret  of  this  woman,  whom  he  had  loved. 

And  it  was  no  longer  he  who  was  putting  her  to  the  test, 
but  she  who  was  trying  him.  What  meant  the  gaze  of  those 
eyes,  reflecting  his  own  soul?  Was  she  repeating  what 
she  had  said  at  their  last  meeting — telling  him  that  more  than 
curiosity  is  needed,  if  the  most  wondrous  secret  of  the  cavern 
is  tc  be  discovered?  Or  was  this  the  alien  smile  of  perfect 
knowledge  with  which  the  dead  look  at  the  living?  For  the 
first  time  he  realised  that  she  was  truly  dead.  Could  he  or 
could  he  not  have  saved  her?  Never  before  had  he  looked 
into  the  face  of  Death  so  directly,  so  near.  Terror  turned 
his  soul  to  ice.  He  drew  back  from  the  horror :  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  did  not  wish  to  know. 

With  a  hasty  and  furtive  movement  he  dropped  the  shroud 
again  over  the  canvas,  and  turned  away. 

In  the  succeeding  spring,  by  the  good  offices  of  Charles 
d'Amboise,  Leonardo  was  freed  from  his  engagements  to  the 
Florentine  Republic,  and  able  to  return  to  Milan.  Now,  as 
twenty-five  years  before,  he  was  glad  to  leave  his  home,  and 
to  see  the  snowy  crests  of  the  Alps  rising  above  the  great 
plain  of  Lombardy.  Now,  as  then,  he  was  an  exile,  cast  out 
from  his  country  and  his  home. 


BOOK     XV 

THE   HOLY   INQUISITION — 1506-1513 

Know  all ;  but  be  known  of  none. 

asil  the  Gnostic 

I 

In  the  year  1507  Leonardo  definitely  entered  the  service 
of  Louis  xii.,  established  himself  at  Milan,  and  went  no  more 
to  Florence,  except  for  small  matters  of  business. 

Four  years  passed  uneventfully. 

Towards  the  close  of  15 11  Giovanni  Boltraffio,  who  was 
now  a  master  of  repute,  was  working  at  a  wall-painting  in  the 
new  Church  of  San  Maurizio.  It  belonged  to  the  ancient 
foundation  of  the  Monastero  Maggiore,  and  was  built  on  the 
ruins  of  the  Roman  circus.  Beside  it,  enclosed  by  a  high 
fence  and  abutting  on  the  Via  Delia  Vigna,  was  a  neglected 
garden,  and  the  once  splendid  but  now  deserted  and  ruined 
palace  of  the  Counts  of  Carmagnola.  The  nuns  of  the 
Monastero  Maggiore  had  let  this  house  and  garden  to 
Messer  Galeotto  Sacrobosco,  the  old  alchemist,  who  had 
lately  returned  to  Milan  with  Cassandra  his  niece.  Their 
cottage  by  the  Porta  Vercellina  having  been  destroyed  at  the 
time  of  the  first  French  invasion,  the  pair  had  wandered  for 
nine  years  in  Greece,  the  islands  of  the  Archipelago,  Asia 
Minor,  and  Syria.  Strange  tales  were  told  of  them :  Galeotto 
had  found  the  philosopher's  stone  ;  he  had  appropriated  vast 
sums  lent  him  by  the  Devatdar  of  Syria  for  experiments,  and 
had  fled  for  his  life.  Monna  Cassandra,  by  the  help  of  the 
devil,  had  found  treasure  on  the  site  of  an  ancient  Phoenician 
temple ;  she  had  bewitched,  drugged,  and  plundered  a  wealthy 
merchant  at  Constantinople ;  at  any  rate  the  pair  had  left 
Milan  beggars,  and  had  returned  rich — that  much  was  certain. 


4i2  THE  FORERUNNER 

Pupil  of  Demetrius  Chalcondylas,  and  also  of  Sidonia  the 
witch,  Cassandra  appeared  now  a  devout  daughter  of  the 
Church.  She  observed  all  fasts  and  ceremonies,  she  attended 
the  holy  offices,  and  by  her  charities  had  acquired  the  favour 
not  only  of  the  sisters  of  the  Monastero  Maggiore,  but  that 
of  the  archbishop  himself.  Evil  tongues,  however,  declared 
that  her  religion  was  a  pretence,  that  she  was  still  a  pagan, 
that  she  and  her  uncle  had  only  escaped  the  Inquisition  by 
flight  from  Rome,  and  that  sooner  or  later  she  was  certain  to 
be  burned  at  the  stake.  Messer  Galeotto  still  reverenced 
Leonardo,  and  considered  him  his  master  in  the  occult 
wisdom  of  Hermes  Trismegistus.  The  alchemist  had  col- 
lected many  rare  books  in  the  course  of  his  travels  ;  for  the 
most  part  those  of  Alexandrian  scholars  of  Ptolemaic  times. 
Leonardo  borrowed  these  sometimes,  and  generally  sent 
Giovanni  to  fetch  them,  since  he  was  working  close  to  the 
alchemist's  house.  As  had  happened  before,  Giovanni  fell 
under  the  spell  of  Cassandra,  and  his  visits  became  more 
frequent.  At  first  she  spoke  to  him  guardedly,  acting  up  to 
her  part  of  repentant  sinner,  and  expressing  a  desire  to  take 
the  veil.  Little  by  little  she  dismissed  her  fears,  and  became 
confidential.  They  recalled  their  meetings  of  ten  years  ago, 
when  they  had  both  been  little  more  than  children — the  lonely 
terrace  above  the  quiet  Cantarana,  the  walls  of  the  Convent 
of  St.  Radegonda;  especially  that  sultry  evening  when  she 
had  spoken  to  him  of  the  Resurrection  of  the  Gods,  and  had 
invited  him  to  the  Witches'  Sabbath.  Now  she  lived  as  a 
recluse ;  was  ill,  or  pretended  to  be  so ;  and  when  she  was 
not  at  church  she  hid  herself  in  a  remote  secluded  dark 
chamber,  where  the  windows  looked  out  on  the  neglected 
garden,  densely  shadowed  by  cypress  trees.  The  room  was 
furnished  like  a  library  or  a  museum.  Here  were  the  antiquities 
she  had  brought  from  the  East ;  fragments  of  statues,  dog- 
headed  gods  of  black  syenite  from  Egypt,  mysterious  stones 
upon  which  was  incised  the  magic  word  Abraxas,  signi- 
fying the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  celestial  spheres  of 
the  Gnostics  ;  precious  Byzantine  parchments,  which  time  had 
rendered  hard  as  ivory ;  fragments  from  Greek  manuscripts, 
hopelessly  lost ;  earthen  shards,  with  cuneiform  Assyrian 
inscriptions ;  books  of  the  Persian  magi,  clasped  with  iron ; 
Memphian  papyri,  transparent  and  thin  as  the  petals  of  a 
flower. 


THE  HOLY  INQUISITION— 1506-1513         413 

Cassandra  told  Giovanni  of  the  wonders  she  had  seen  j  of 
the  desolate  grandeur  of  marble  temples  standing  on  sea- 
worn  cliffs,  at  their  feet  the  blue  Ionian  waves,  their  columns 
bedewed  with  the  brine,  like  the  naked  body  of  the  foam- 
born  goddess  long  ago.  She  told  of  her  incredible  exertions, 
dangers,  accidents.  He  asked  her  what  she  had  sought,  why 
she  had  collected  these  things  at  the  cost  of  so  much  toil, 
and  she  answered  in  the  words  of  Luigi  her  father : — 

'  To  bring  the  dead  to  life.' 

And  her  eyes  glowed  with  the  fire  that  had  belonged  to 
Cassandra,  the  witch  of  days  gone  by. 

In  appearance  she  was  little  changed;  she  had  the  same 
face,  untouched  by  grief  or  joy — impassive  as  the  faces  of 
the  ancient  statues ;  the  same  broad  low  forehead,  straight 
fine  eyebrows,  firm  unsmiling  lips,  and  amber  eyes.  Yet  now 
her  face,  refined  by  illness,  or  perhaps  by  the  over-insistence 
of  a  single  thought,  had  taken  an  expression  calmer  and 
more  austere  than  it  had  worn  in  her  girlhood.  Her  dark 
hair,  twined  and  wreathed  like  Medusa's  snakes,  still  gave 
the  impression  of  having  a  life  of  its  own,  still  formed  a 
frame  for  her  pale  face,  and  enhanced  the  brilliance  of  her 
eyes,  the  scarlet  of  her  lips.  The  charm  of  the  girl  attracted 
Giovanni  irresistibly  as  of  old,  and  renewed  in  his  soul  the 
old  feelings  of  curiosity,  compassion,  and  fear. 

In  her  journey  across  the  land  of  Hellas  she  had  visited 
her  mother's  native  place,  the  lonely  little  town  of  Mistra, 
near  the  ruins  of  Sparta,  among  the  bare  hills  where,  half  a 
century  before,  had  died  Gemistus  Pletho,  last  teacher  of 
the  Hellenic  philosophy.  Telling  Giovanni  of  her  visit  to 
his  grave,  she  repeated  Pletho's  prophecy  that  after  a  few 
years  the  world  would  return  to  a  single  faith,  not  differing 
from  the  ancient  paganism. 

'The  prophecy  is  not  fulfilled,'  said  Giovanni,  'though 
more  than  fifty  years  have  passed.  Have  you  still  faith  in 
him,  Monna  Cassandra?' 

4  There  was  not  perfect  truth  in  Pletho,'  she  replied  calmly, 
'for  there  was  much  he  did  not  know.' 

'  What  ? '  asked  Giovanni ;  and  under  the  intentness  of 
her  glance  he  felt  his  heart  sink. 

She  took  a  parchment  from  the  shelf,  and  read  to  him 
certain  lines  from  the  Prometheus,  in  which  the  Titan, 
having  enumerated  his  gifts  to  men,  more  especially  thai 


4M  THE  FORERUNNER 

fire  which  he  had  stolen  from  heaven,  and  which  would 
make  them  equal  with  the  gods,  goes  on  to  prophesy  the  fall 
of  Zeus. 

'Giovanni,  have  you  never  heard  of- the  man  who,  ten 
centuries  ago,  dreamed,  like  Pletho,  of  reviving  the  dead  gods 
— the  Emperor  Flavius  Claudius  Julian  ? ' 

'Julian  the  Apostate?' 

'  Ay,  so  they  called  him.' 

'He  gave  his  life  in  vain  for  the  Olympians/  She 
hesitated,  then  continued  in  a  lower  voice :  '  If  I  were 
to  tell  you  all,  Giovanni !  But  for  to-day  I  will  say  only 
this.  Among  the  Olympians  is  a  god  nearer  than  all 
others  to  his  brethren  below ;  a  god  both  bright  and 
dark ;  fair  as  the  dawn,  yet  pitiless  as  death ;  who  came  to 
earth  and  gave  to  mortals — as  Prometheus  had  done — the 
forgetting  of  death  and  the  boon  of  fire — new  fire — in  his 
own  blood,  in  the  intoxicating  juice  of  the  vine;  and,  my 
brother,  who  is  there  among  men  who  will  understand  ?  who 
will  go  boldly  forth  and  say  to  the  world,  "  The  love  of  him 
who  is  crowned  with  the  vine  is  like  the  love  of  Him  who  is 
crowned  with  thorns  (who  said,  '  I  am  the  true  vine ') ;  of  Him 
who,  no  less  than  Dionysus,  makes  the  world  drunk  with  his 
blood  ?  "  Have  you  understood,  Giovanni,  of  whom  I  speak  ? 
If  not,  ask  me  nothing,  for  here  is  a  secret  which  we  may  not, 
as  yet,  reveal.' 

Of  late  a  great  audacity  of  thought  had  come  to  Giovanni. 
He  feared  nothing,  because  he  had  nothing  to  lose.  He 
had  convinced  himself  that  neither  in  the  faith  of  Fra 
Benedetto,  nor  in  the  knowledge  of  Leonardo,  would  he 
find  peace.  Cassandra's  prophecies  gave  him  a  glimpse  of 
a  new  idea,  so  startling  as  to  be  terrible.  Instead  of  turning 
away  he  approached  it  with  the  courage  of  despair.  Day  by 
day  their  souls  came  closer  to  each  other. 

Once  he  asked  her  why  she  hid  what  she  believed  to  be 
the  truth,  why  she  even  dissembled? 

'AH  things  are  not  for  all  men,'  she  answered.  'Martyr- 
doms, wonders,  and  signs  are  necessary  for  the  crowd.  Only 
those  whose  faith  is  imperfect  die  for  their  faith,  that  they 
may  convince  others,  and  themselves.  But  perfect  faith  is 
the  same  thing  as  perfect  knowledge.  Did  the  truths  of 
geometry  discovered  by  Pythagoras  require  that  he  should 
die  in  proof  of  them  ?    Perfect  faith  is  silent ;  and  its  secret  is 


THE  HOLY  INQUISITION— 1506-1513         415 

above  profession,  for  the  master  said,  "  Ye  know  all,  but  be 
ye  known  of  none." ' 

'What  master?'  asked  Giovanni,  thinking  of  Leonardo. 

'Basil,  the  Egyptian  Gnostic,'  she  replied;  and  explained 
that  the  great  teachers  of  the  early  Christian  ages,  to  whom 
faith  and  knowledge  had  been  one,  had  called  themselves 
Gnostics,  or  Knowers;  and  she  went  on  to  repeat  to  him 
many  of  their  sayings,  often  strange  and  monstrous,  like  the 
visions  of  the  delirious. 

He  was  especially  impressed  by  a  legend  as  to  the  creation 
of  the  world  and  of  man,  put  forth  bv  the  Alexandrine 
Ophites,  or  snake  worshippers. 

1 "  Above  all  the  heavens  is  boundless  Darkness,  immovable, 
fairer  than  any  light ;  the  Unknown  Father,  the  Abyss,  the 
Silence.  His  only-begotten  daughter,  the  Wisdom  of  God, 
separating  from  the  Father,  knew  life,  and  sorrow,  and 
darkened  her  splendour.  The  son  of  her  travail  was  Jaldavaoth, 
the  creating  God.  Falling  away  from  his  mother  he  plunged 
yet  more  deeply  into  existence,  and  created  the  world  of  the 
body,  a  distorted  image  of  the  spiritual  world.  In  it  was 
Man,  formed  to  reflect  the  greatness  of  his  creator,  and  to  bear 
witness  to  his  power.  The  elemental  spirits,  the  ministers 
of  Jaldavaoth,  brought  the  senseless  mass  of  flesh  to 
Jaldavaoth  to  be  endowed  with  life  ;  but  the  Wisdom  of  God 
inspired  it  also  with  a  breath  of  the  divine  wisdom,  received  by 
her  from  the  Unknown  Father.  And  then  this  mean  creature, 
formed  of  earth  and  dust,  became  greater  than  Jaldavaoth  its 
creator,  and  grew  into  the  shape  and  the  likeness  not  of  him 
but  of  the  true  God,  the  Unknown  Father.  Four-footed  Man 
raised  his  face  from  the  earth,  and  Jaldavaoth,  at  the  sight  of 
the  being  which  had  slipped  from  his  power,  was  filled  with 
anger  and  alarm.  He  formed  another  creature,  the  Angel  of 
Darkness,  the  serpent-like  Satan,  the  wisdom  accursed.  And 
by  the  help  of  the  serpent  Jaldavaoth  formed  the  three  king- 
doms of  Nature ;  and  set  Man  therein,  and  gave  him  a  law. 
"  Do  this  ;  do  not  that :  if  thou  breakest  the  law,  thou  shalt 
die."  For  he  hoped  by  the  yoke  of  the  law,  and  by  the  fear 
of  death  to  recover  his  power  over  man.  But  the  Wisdom  of 
God  still  protected  Man,  and  sent  him  a  comforter,  the  Spirit 
of  Knowledge — snake-like  also,  but  winged  like  the  morning 
star,  the  Angel  of  the  Dawn,  him  to  whom  allusion  is  made  in 
the  saying,  "Be  ye  wise  as  the  serpent."    And  the  Spirit  of 


4i6  THE  FORERUNNER 

Knowledge  went  down  to  men  and  said,  "  Taste  and  know, 
and  your  eyes  shall  be  opened,  and  ye  shall  be  as  gods."' 

1  Hearken,  Giovanni,' concluded  Cassandra ;  '  the  men  of  the 
crowd,  the  children  of  this  world,  are  the  slaves  of  Jaldavaoth 
and  of  the  serpent  Satan,  living  under  the  fear  of  death, 
bound  by  the  yoke  of  the  law.  But  the  children  of  light,  those 
who  know,thc  chosen  of  Sophia,  the  Wisdom  of  God,  transcend 
all  laws,  overstep  all  bounds,  are  free  as  gods,  are  furnished 
with  wings,  remain  pure  in  the  midst  of  evil,  even  as  gold 
glitters  in  the  mire.  And  the  Spirit  of  Knowledge,  the  Angel 
of  the  Dawn,  leads  them  through  life  and  death,  through  evil 
and  through  good,  through  all  the  curses  and  the  terrors  of 
the  world  of  Jaldavaoth,  to  the  great  mother,  Sophia,  the 
Wisdom  of  God;  and  she  bringeth  them  to  the  bosom  of  the 
great  Darkness,  which  reigns  above  the  heavens,  which  is 
immovable  and  fairer  than  any  light ;  to  the  bosom  of  the 
Father  of  all  things.' 

And  hearing  this  legend  of  the  Ophites,  Giovanni  could  not 
help  inwardly  comparing  Jaldavaoth  to  the  son  of  Kronos ; 
the  breath  of  Divine  Wisdom  to  the  fire  of  Prometheus  ;  the 
Beneficent  Serpent  the  Angel  of  the  Dawn,  Lucifer,  Son  of  the 
Morning,  to  Prometheus  the  Titan.  In  all  ages  and  nations,  in 
the  tragedies  of  ^schylus,  in  the  legend  of  the  Gnostics,  in  the 
history  of  Julian  the  Apostate,  in  the  teaching  of  Pletho  the 
philosopher,  Giovanni  found  the  echoes  of  the  great  discord, 
the  same  great  struggle,  which  darkened  his  own  spirit.  Ten 
centuries  ago  men  were  suffering  as  he  suffered  now,  were 
contending  with  the  same  double  thoughts,  were  the  victims 
of  the  same  contradictions,  the  same  temptations.  The 
knowledge  that  this  was  so  solaced  him,  yet  it  deepened  his 
anguish.  Sometimes  he  felt  overwhelmed  by  all  these 
thoughts  as  by  drunkenness  or  delirium.  And  then  it  seemed 
to  him  that  Cassandra  only  pretended  to  be  strong  and 
inspired  and  initiated  into  the  mystery  of  truth,  while  in 
reality  she  was  no  less  ignorant,  no  less  astray  than  he  was 
himself;  and  that  the  two  of  them  were  as  helpless  and  lost 
as  they  had  been  twelve  years  before  ;  and  this  new  sabbath 
of  half  divine,  half  satanic  lore  was  even  more  senseless  than 
the  Witches'  Sabbath  to  which  she  had  once  invited  him,  and 
which  she  now  despised  as  childishness.  Giovanni  became 
alarmed  and  wished  to  flee,  but  it  wras  too  late ;  curiosity  drew 
him  like  a  spell,  and  he  felt  he  would  not  leave  her  till  he  knew 


THE  HOLY  INQUISITION— 1506-1513        417 

all  to  the  end ;  till  he  had  found  salvation  and  had  perished 
with  her. 

Now  about  this  time  there  came  to  Milan  a  famous 
inquisitor  and  doctor  of  theology,  Fra  Giorgio  de  Casale. 

The  Pope,  Julius  11.,  alarmed  by  the  spread  of  sorcery  in 
Lombardy,  had  sent  him  with  bulls  and  powers  of  committal 
and  of  extraordinary  punishments.  Monna  Cassandra  stood 
in  grave  peril ;  and  was  warned  both  by  the  nuns  of  the 
Monastero  Maggiore  and  by  the  archbishop.  She  and  Messer 
Galeotto  had  already  fled  from  Rome  to  escape  this  same  Fra 
Giorgio ;  they  knew  that  once  fallen  into  his  hands  they 
would  find  no  escape,  and  determined  to  take  refuge  in 
France,  perhaps  in  England  or  even  Scotland. 

Two  days  before  their  setting  forth,  Giovanni  was  with 
Cassandra  in  her  lonely  room  of  the  Palazzo  Carmagnole. 
The  sunshine,  veiled  by  the  thick  cypress  branches,  was 
scarce  brighter  than  moonlight ;  the  girl  seemed  even  fairer 
and  calmer  than  was  her  wont.  Now  that  parting  was  at 
hand,  Giovanni  realised  how  dear  she  was  to  him. 

*  Shall  I  not  see  you  yet  once  more?'  he  asked  her. 
*  Will  you  not  reveal  to  me  that  mystery  of  which  you  have 
spoken?' 

Cassandra  looked  fixedly  at  him ;  then  drew  from  a  casket 
a  flat  four-cornered  stone  of  transparent  green.  It  was  the 
famous  'Tabula  Smaragdina,'  the  emerald  tablet  said  to 
have  been  found  in  a  cave  near  Memphis  in  the  hands  of  the 
mummy  of  a  certain  priest,  who  was  an  incarnation  of 
Hermes  Trismegistus,  the  Egyptain  Horus,  the  god  of 
boundaries,  the  guide  of  the  dead  to  the  underworld.  It  was 
engraved  both  in  Coptic  and  in  Greek  with  these  verses. 

Ovpavo  avoj  ovpavo  kutcj 
Aarepa  av<a  aarepa  acotw 
Uav  avo)  Trap  tovto  kcltoj 
Tavra  Xa/3e  /cat  evrvx^ 

(Heaven  above,  heaven  below  ; 
Stars  above,  stars  bHow  ; 
All  that  is  over,  under  shall  show. 
Happy  thou  who  the  riddle  readest.) 

'Come  to  me  this  night,'  she  said  gravely  and  softly,  'and 
I  will  tell  you  all  that  I  know  myself— do  you  hear? — all,  to 
the  very  end.     And  now  before  we  part,  let  us  drink  together 
the  cup  of  friendship.' 
2  D 


418  THE  FORERUNNER 

She  fetched  a  small  pottery  vessel,  sealed  with  wax  as  in 
the  far  East,  poured  out  wine,  thick  as  oil,  golden-ruddy,  and 
with  a  strange  perfume,  into  an  ancient  goblet  of  chrysolite, 
with  a  relief  of  Dionysus  and  the  Bacchantes.  Going  to  the 
window  she  raised  the  cup  as  if  about  to  pour  a  libation ;  the 
rosy  wine,  like  warm  blood,  gave  life  to  the  figures  of  the 
naked  Maenads  on  the  transparent  cup. 

'  There  was  a  time,  Giovanni,'  she  said,  '  when  I  fancied 
that  your  Master  Leonardo  possessed  the  great  secret ,  for 
his  face  is  as  that  of  an  Olympian  god,  blended  with  a  Titan. 
But  now  I  see  he  aims,  but  he  does  not  attain  ;  seeks  and 
finds  not ;  knows,  but  understands  not.  He  is  the  precursor 
of  him  who  shall  come  after  him,  who  is  greater  than  he.  Let 
us  drink  together,  O  my  brother,  this  farewell  goblet  to  the  Un- 
known whom  we  both  invoke ;  to  the  supreme  Reconciler.' 

Devoutly,  as  if  performing  a  religious  rite,  she  drank  half 
the  cup  and  handed  it  to  Giovanni. 

'Fear  not!  '  she  said,  'this  is  no  poisoned  philtre;  this 
wine  is  from  grapes  of  Nazareth;  'tis  the  purest  blood  of 
Dionysus,  the  Galilcean  I  * 

When  he  had  drunk,  she  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
and  whispered  rapidly  and  solemnly — 

•  If  you  would  know  all,  Come  !  Come,  and  I  will  tell 
you  the  secret,  which  never  yet  have  I  uttered  to  any  one. 
I  will  reveal  the  extreme  joy,  the  extreme  sorrow  which 
shall  unite  us  for  ever,  as  brother  and  sister,  as  bridegroom 
and  bride.' 

In  the  sun's  rays,  veiled  by  the  thick  cypresses,  and  pale 
as  moonlight,  just  as  once  before  by  the  Cantarana  water  in 
the  whiteness  of  the  summer  lightning,  she  put  her  face  close 
to  his,  her  face  white  as  marble,  framed  by  its  Medusa  locks, 
with  its  scarlet  lips,  its  amber  eyes. 

The  chill  of  a  familiar  terror  froze  Giovanni's  heart,  and  he 
said  to  himself: — 

'  La  Diavolessa  bianca  I ' 

That  night  at  the  appointed  hour  Giovanni  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  Palazzo  Carmagnole.  He  knocked  long, 
but  none  opened  to  him.  At  last  he  went  to  the  Monastero 
Maggiore,  and  there  he  learned  the  terrible  news.  Fra  Giorgio 
da  Casale  had  appeared  suddenly,  and  had  given  orders  at 
once  to  apprehend  Galeotto  Sacrobosco  and  his  niece 
Cassandra  on  a  charge  of  black  magic. 


THE  HOLY  INQUISITION-1506-1515         419 

Messer  Galeotto  had  succeeded  in  escaping,  but  Cassandra 
was  already  in  the  clutch  of  the  Holy  Inquisition. 

II 

Next  day  Boltraffio  did  not  leave  his  bed.  He  was  indis- 
posed, and  his  head  ached;  he  was  half  unconscious,  and 
cared  for  nothing. 

At  nightfall  there  was  an  unwonted  pealing  of  bells,  and 
through  his  room  spread  a  faint  but  repulsive  odour.  His 
headache  increased,  he  felt  sick,  and  he  went  out  into  the  air. 
The  day  was  warm  and  damp,  a  day  of  scirocco,  frequent  at 
Milan  in  the  early  autumn.  There  was  no  rain,  but  the  roofs 
and  the  trees  dripped,  and  the  brick  pavement  was  shining 
and  slippery.  Yet  in  the  open  air  Giovanni  found  the 
noisome  odour  still  stronger  than  in  his  room. 

The  streets  were  thronged,  the  people  all  coming  from  the 
Piazza  del  Broletto;  as  Giovanni  looked  in  their  faces  he 
fancied  them  in  the  same  state  of  semi-unconsciousness  as 
himself.  Presently  chance  words  from  a  passer-by  explained 
to  him  the  noisome  odour  which  pursued  him ;  it  was  the 
appalling  stench  of  burned  human  bodies.  They  were 
burning  witches,  sorceresses.  Perhaps — O  God  ! — burning 
Cassandra ! 

He  began  to  run,  not  knowing  whither,  jostling  people, 
staggering  like  a  drunken  man,  trembling  with  ague,  feeling 
the  foul  savour  in  the  greasy  and  yellow  mist,  feeling  it  follow 
him,  catch  him  by  the  throat,  stifle  his  lungs,  bind  his 
temples  with  a  dull  and  gnawing  pain. 

He  never  remembered  how  he  made  his  way  to  the 
Monastery  of  San  Francisco  and  to  Fra  Benedetto's  cell.  It 
was  empty,  for  Benedetto  was  at  Bergamo.  Giovanni  shut 
the  door,  lit  a  candle,  and  sank  exhausted  on  the  pallet-bed. 

In  this  familiar  and  peaceful  retreat  nil  breathed  of  holiness 
and  peace.  The  stench  had  dissipated,  he  smelt  only 
incense,  fast-day  olives,  old  books,  and  the  varnish  for 
Benedetto's  simple  paintings.  On  the  wall  hung  a  crucifix 
and  an  ancient  gift  of  Giovanni's,  a  withered  garland  of 
flowers  gathered  on  the  heights  of  Fiesole  in  those  days  when 
he  sat  at  the  feet  of  Savonarola. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  Crucified.  The  Saviour  still 
extended  his   nailed  hand  as  if  calling  the  world  to  his 


42o  THE  FORERUNNER 

embrace :  '  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy- 
laden.'     Was  not  that  the  one,  the  perfect  truth  ? 

But  the  prayer  died  on  his  lips.  Not  though  eternal 
damnation  threatened  him  could  he  cease  to  know  what  he 
did  know,  could  he  drive  out  or  reconcile  the  two  truths 
which  were  contending  in  him.  In  his  old  calm  despair  he 
turned  away  from  the  Crucified,  and  at  the  same  moment  he 
fancied  that  the  noisome  mist,  the  terrible  stench  of  the 
burning  had  reached  him  even  here  in  this  last  refuge. 

And  there  rose  before  him  a  vision  which  he  had  seen 
often  of  late,  so  distinct  he  scarce  knew  if  it  were  reality  or 
dream;  the  vision  of  Cassandra  in  the  glow  of  the  scarlet 
flame,  among  the  instruments  of  torture  and  stains  of  blood ; 
she  white,  virginal,  firm  as  the  marble  of  a  statue,  preserved 
by  the  power  of  the  Beneficent  Serpent,  the  Reconciler,  the 
Deliverer,  insensible  to  the  iron  and  the  flame  and  the  gaze 
of  her  tormentors. 

Coming  to  himself,  he  knew  by  the  dying  candle,  by  the 
strokes  of  the  convent  clock,  that  hours  had  passed  in 
oblivion,  and  that  it  was  now  past  midnight.  It  was  very 
still,  and  the  air  was  hot.  Through  the  window  were  seen 
pale  blue  flashes  of  lightning,  as  on  that  memorable  night 
long  ago  by  the  Cantarana.  The  dull  roar  of  distant  thunder 
seemed  to  come  from  below  the  earth.  His  head  ached,  his 
mouth  was  parched,  thirst  tortured  him;  he  remembered 
having  seen  a  pitcher  of  water  in  the  corner.  He  rose, 
dragging  himself  along  by  the  wall,  found  it,  drank,  and  was 
returning  to  his  couch  when  he  became  conscious  that  some 
one  was  with  him  in  the  cell.  Seated  on  the  couch  was  a 
figure  in  the  long  dark  habit  of  a  monk,  a  hood  covering  the 
face.  He  was  astonished,  for  the  door  was  locked,  yet  he 
felt  relieved  rather  than  alarmed.  His  head  ceased  to  ache, 
his  senses  were  quickened.  He  approached  the  seated 
figure.  It  rose,  and  the  cowl  fell  back;  Giovanni  saw  the 
face,  marble  white,  passionless,  the  lips  red  as  blood,  the 
amber  eyes,  the  halo  of  black  hair  like  Medusa's  snakes. 

Solemnly,  slowly,  as  if  for  an  incantation,  Cassandra  rose, 
her  arms  extended.  The  black  robe  fell  back.  He  saw  the 
glowing  warmth  and  beauty  of  her  neck.  Was  she  alive? 
My  God !  was  she  alive  ? 

For  the  last  time  Giovanni  murmured,  'The  white  sor- 
ceress ! '     It  seemed  as  if  the  veil  of  life  were  rent  before 


THE  HOLY  INQUISITION— 1506-1513         42* 

him.  He  was  face  to  face  with  the  mystery  of  the  supreme 
union.  She  knelt  before  him.  .  .  .  She  folded  him  in  her 
arms.  .  .  .  Ah !  the  inexpressible  sweetness  !  the  inexpressible 
fear !     .  .  Delirium  !  delirium  ! 

Ill 

Zoroastro  da  Peretola  had  not  died,  neither  had  he  re- 
covered from  his  fall.  He  was  a  cripple,  and  able  to  mutter 
only  fragmentary  words  intelligible  to  none  but  the  Master. 
Sometimes  he  roamed  about  the  house,  clattering  on  his 
crutches;  sometimes  he  listened  to  conversation  as  if  trying 
to  understand  it;  or  he  would  sit  in  a  corner  winding  strips 
of  linen,  or  planing  wooden  staves,  whittling  sticks  or  carving 
tops,  for  his  workman's  hands  had  not  lost  their  need  of 
movement,  nor  entirely  their  skill.  But  often  he  would  rock 
himself  for  hours  together,  a  smile  on  his  face,  and  his  arms 
waving  as  if  they  were  wings,  while  he  crooned  an  unending 
ditty  :— 

•  Cucurlu  !     Curlu  ! 

Cranes  and  eagles 

Up  they  flew  ! 

Up  they  flew, 

Cranes  and  eagles, — 

Cucurlu  ! ' 

And  then,  looking  at  the  Master,  he  would  weep — a  sight  too 
painful  for  Leonardo  to  bear.  He  never  deserted  the  broken 
creature,  but  cared  for  him,  gave  him  money,  and  whenever 
possible  kept  him  in  his  house.  Years  passed,  and  the 
cripple  remained  a  living  reproof,  a  mockery  of  his  life-long 
effort,  his  fashioning  of  wings  for  men. 

Scarce  less  distressed  was  Leonardo  by  the  attitude  of 
Cesare  da  Sesto,  that  one  of  his  pupils  who  was  perhaps 
nearest  to  his  heart.  Like  Astro  and  Giovanni  he  was 
mentally  crippled,  anxious  to  stand  alone,  but  overwhelmed 
by  the  Master's  influence,  and  reduced  to  nullity.  Not 
content  to  be  an  imitator,  not  strong  enough  to  be  in- 
dependent, he  wore  himself  out  with  fruitless  fretting 
and  impotent  rage,  incompetent  either  to  save  himself  or  to 
perish.  He  was  one  of  those  upon  whom  Leonardo  was 
accused  of  having  cast  the  Evil  Eye. 

Cesare  was  said  to  be  in  secret  correspondence  with 
Raphael,  who  was  working  at  the  frescoes  of  the  Vatican 


422  THE  FORERUNNER 

Stanze,  and  Leonardo  sometimes  thought  treachery  was 
meditated.  But  worse  than  the  treachery  of  enemies  was 
the  so-called  fidelity  of  friends.  Under  the  name  of  the 
Accademia  di  Leonardo,  a  school  of  young  painters  had  grown 
up  in  Milan,  a  few  of  them  his  pupils,  the  greater  number 
newcomers,  who  clung  to  him  like  parasites,  and  persuaded 
themselves  and  others  that  they  were  following  in  his  steps. 
He  stood  aloof,  and  watched  them.  At  times  disgust  over- 
whelmed him  when  he  saw  how  all  that  he  had  reverenced 
as  great  and  sacred  had  become  the  property  of  the  common 
herd ;  how  the  Lord's  face  in  the  Cenacolo  was  copied  till  it 
was  mere  ecclesiastical  commonplace ;  how  the  smile  of  La 
Gioconda  was  imitated,  exaggerated,  vulgarised,  till  it  became 
stupid,  if  not  sensual. 

One  winter's  night  Leonardo  was  sitting  alone,  listening 
to  the  shriek  and  roar  of  the  storm ;  it  was  just  such  a  night 
as  that  in  which  he  had  heard  of  Monna  Lisa's  death ;  he  was 
thinking  of  her,  and  thinking  of  Death  itself,  of  the  last  dread 
solitude  in  the  bosom  of  ancient  Chaos,  of  the  infinite  weariness 
of  the  world.  There  was  a  knock ;  he  rose  and  opened  the 
door.  A  young  man  entered,  a  lad  of  nineteen,  with  bright 
eyes,  fresh  cheeks  reddened  by  the  cold,  melting  snowflakes 
in  his  chestnut  curls. 

1  Oh  Messer  Leonardo  ! '  he  exclaimed,  '  do  you  not  know 
me?' 

Leonardo  looked  and  recognised  his  little  friend,  the  child 
with  whom  he  had  roamed  the  woods  of  Vaprio,  Francesco 
Melzi.  He  embraced  him  with  fatherly  tenderness.  The 
youth  related  how,  after  the  French  invasion  of  1500,  his 
father  had  taken  his  family  to  Bologna,  and  there  had  fallen 
sick  of  a  malady  which  had  lasted  for  long  years.  Now  he 
was  dead,  and  the  son  had  hastened  to  Leonardo,  remem- 
bering his  promise. 

'But  what  promise?'  asked  the  painter,  bewildered. 

'  Ah  !  you  have  forgotten !  And  I,  poor  simpleton,  have 
been  counting  on  it!  Nay,  then!  do  you  not  remember? 
You  were  carrying  me  in  the  mine  at  the  foot  of  Monte 
Campione,  and  you  told  me  how  you  were  to  serve  Csesar 
Borgia  in  Romagna.  And  I  wept,  and  prayed  you  to  take 
me  with  you,  and  you  promised  that  after  ten  years'  time, 
when  I  should  be  grown ' 

'Ay  I     I  recall  it ! '  said  Leonardo  warmly. 


THE  HOLY  INQUISITION— 1506-1513         423 

'You  see?  Ah,  Messer  Leonardo,  I  know  you  have  no 
need  of  me.  But  I  will  be  no  burden  to  you,  I  will  not 
disturb  you.  Pr'ythee  drive  me  not  hence  !  If  you  drive  me 
hence,  I  will  not  go !  I  will  never  leave  you  again  ! '  cried 
the  lad. 

'  My  dear,  dear  boy  ! '  said  the  Master,  and  his  voice  shook. 

He  embraced  him  again,  and  Francesco  clung  to  his  breast 
as  he  had  done  years  ago  when  Leonardo  had  carried  him 
into  the  subterranean  darkness  of  the  forgotten  pit. 

IV 

Since  Leonardo  had  left  Florence  in  1507,  he  had  been 
enrolled  as  court  painter  in  the  service  of  the  French  King, 
Louis  Xii.  He  had  no  fixed  salary,  but  relied  on  the  royal 
bounty.  The  treasurers  frequently  forgot  him  altogether,  nor 
was  he  able  to  call  opportune  attention  to  himself  by  his 
productions,  for  as  years  increased  upon  him  he  worked  less 
and  less.  He  was  consequently,  as  of  old,  in  continual 
straits  and  entanglements ;  he  borrowed  wherever  he  could, 
and  contracted  new  debts  before  he  had  paid  off  the  old. 
He  wrote  the  same  timid,  clumsy  petitions  to  the  French 
Viceroy  and  Treasurer  as  formerly  to  the  officials  of  Ludovico 
II  Moro. 

'Not  wishing  to  fatigue  your  Excellency's  generosity,  I 
permit  myself  to  request  that  I  may  receive  a  regular  salary. 
More  than  once  have  I  addressed  your  lordship  on  this 
subject,  but  hitherto  have  been  vouchsafed  no  reply.' 

In  the  ante-chambers  of  his  patrons  he  quietly  waited  his 
turn  among  other  suppliants,  though  with  advancing  years  he 
increasingly  knew — 

4  How  salt  another's  bread  is,  and  the  toil 
Of  going  up  and  down  another's  stairs.' 

The  service  of  princes  was  as  bitter  to  him  as  had  been 
the  service  of  the  republic ;  everywhere  and  always  he  felt 
himself  a  stranger.  Raphael  had  become  rich  and  splendid 
as  a  Roman  patrician;  Michelangelo  was  hoarding  money 
against  the  evil  days;  Leonardo  was  still  a  homeless 
wanderer,  not  knowing  where  he  could  lay  his  head  when 
he  came  to  die. 

Wars    victories,    the   defeat   of    his    friends,   changes   in 


424  THE  FORERUNNER 

governments  and  laws,  the  enslaving  of  peoples,  the  chasing 
forth  of  tyrants — all  that  to  the  generality  seems  important, 
was  to  him  as  a  whirl  of  dust  to  a  wayfarer  on  a  high  road. 
With  equal  indifference  he  fortified  the  Castle  of  Milan  for 
the  French  king  against  the  Lombards,  as  once  he  had  fortified 
it  for  the  Duke  of  Lombardy  against  the  French. 

Trivulzio,  the  ambitious  general,  was  intriguing  against 
Massimiliano,  and  Leonardo  saw  the  fate  of  the  father,  II 
Moro,  threatening  II  Moretto.  Wearied  by  these  monotonous 
and  arbitrary  political  changes,  sickened  by  the  manufacture 
of  triumphal  arches  and  the  mending  of  the  wings  of  the 
trumpery  angels,  he  determined  to  leave  Milan  and  pass  into 
the  service  of  the  Medici. 

In  Rome,  however  —  for  Giovanni  de  Medici,  hiving 
become  pope,  with  the  style  of  Leo  x.,  had  nominated  his 
brother  Giuliano  as  Gonfaloniere  of  the  Holy  Church.  He 
had  already  gone  to  Rome,  and  it  was  arranged  that  Leonardo 
should  join  him  in  the  autumn.  He  was  to  be  both  painter 
and  '  alchemist '  in  Giuliano's  service. 

On  the  morrow  of  the  day  when  the  hundred  and  thirty- 
nine  witches  had  been  burned  in  the  Piazza  del  Broletto,  the 
monks  of  San  Francesco  had  found  Giovanni  Boltraffio 
stretched  senseless  on  the  floor  of  Fra  Benedetto's  cell. 
Clearly  he  was  suffering,  as  he  had  suffered  fifteen  years  earlier, 
after  having  heard  the  tale  of  Savonarola's  martyrdom.  On  this 
second  occasion  his  recovery  was  rapid ;  nevertheless  there 
were  times  when  his  unspeculative  eye,  his  strangely  impas- 
sive face  inspired  Leonardo  with  greater  fear  than  during  his 
long  illness  of  years  ago. 

However  that  might  be,  on  the  23rd  of  September  1513 
Leonardo  rode  out  of  Milan  for  Rome  to  join  his  new  patron 
Giuliano,  with  Francesco  Melzi,  Salaino,  Cesare,  Astro,  and 
Giovanni. 


BOOK    XV 

LEONARDO,  MICHELANGELO,  AND  RAPHAEL 1513-1515 

Lapazienza  fa  contra  alle  ingiurienon  altrimenti  che  sifaccino  i panni 
contra  del  freddo  ;  imperb  che  ,  se  ti  multiplicherai  di  panni  second 0  la 
multiplicazione  del  freddoy  esso  freddo  nocere  non  ti  potra  ;  similmente 
alle  grandi  ingiurie  cresci  la  pazienza,  essa  ingiurie  offendere  non  ti 
potranno  la  tua  mente. — Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(Patience  acts  against  insults  as  garments  act  against  cold.  With  the 
doubling  of  your  misfortunes,  put  on  a  double  cloak  of  endurance. ) 

I 

Pope  Leo  x.,  true  to  the  traditions  of  the  house  of  the 
Medici,  posed  as  patron  of  art  and  learning.  When  he  heard 
of  his  own  election  he  said  to  his  brother : — 

'Let  us  enjoy  the  papal  power,  since  God  has  conceded  it 
to  us ! ' 

And  Fra  Mariano,  his  favourite  jester  added  : — 

'Seek  your  own  pleasure,  Holy  Father  \    All  else  is  folly.' 

The  pope  surrounded  himself  with  poets,  musicians, 
painters,  and  scholars.  A  golden  age  had  dawned  for 
imitative  men  of  letters,  who  had  one  unassailable  article  of 
faith,  the  perfection  of  Cicero's  prose  and  of  Virgil's  poetry. 

The  shepherds  of  Christ's  flock  avoided  the  mention  of  His 
name,  because  it  was  a  word  unknown  to  Cicero's  Orations. 
They  called  nuns,  vestals ;  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  Inspiration  of 
the  Supreme  Jove ;  and  they  requested  the  Pope  to  include 
Plato  in  the  roll  of  saints.  Bembo,  a  future  cardinal,  owned 
that  he  did  not  read  the  Epistles  of  Paul  (he  called  them 
Epistolaccie)  lest  he  should  spoil  his  style.  When  Francis  I. 
asked  for  the  Laocoon,  Leo  x.  replied  that  he  would  sooner 
give  him  the  head  of  Peter  the  Apostle. 

The  pope  loved  his  scholars  and  artists,  his  poets  and 

425 


426  THE  FORERUNNER 

pedants;  but  above  all  he  loved  hts  jesters.  He  solemnly 
crowned  Cuerno,  the  celebrated  rhymster  and  drunkard,  and 
was  no  less  liberal  to  him  than  to  Raphael.  He  spent  huge 
sums  on  feasts,  though  he  ate  sparingly  himself,  being  afflicted 
with  a  weak  digestion,  and  an  incurable  purulent  disease; 
and  his  soul  was  no  less  sick  than  his  body,  for  he  suffered 
from  continual  ennui. 

When  Leonardo  first  presented  himself  at  the  Vatican  he 
was  told  that  his  only  hope  of  obtaining  audience  of  His 
Holiness  was  to  declare  himself  a  buffoon.  He  did  not 
follow  this  good  advice,  and  failed  of  admission  time  and 
again.  Of  late  he  had  experienced  strange  forebodings  which 
he  tried  to  put  from  him  as  senseless  and  absurd.  It  was 
not  anxiety  as  to  his  affairs  which  oppressed  him ;  nor  was  it 
his  failure  to  gain  adequate  recognition  from  Leo  x.  or 
Giuliano  de'  Medici.  He  had  been  too  long  used  to  annoy- 
ances of  this  kind.  But  his  vague  disquiet,  his  ominous 
apprehension,  continually  increased ;  till  one  radiant  autumn 
evening,  as  he  was  returning  from  the  Vatican,  his  heart  sank, 
under  the  pressure  of  imminent  catastrophe. 

He  was  living  in  the  same  house  where  he  had  lived  during 
his  former  visit  to  Rome ;  one  of  the  small  detached  buildings 
behind  St.  Peter's,  which  had  belonged  to  the  Papal  Mint. 
It  was  old  and  gloomy,  and  having  been  unoccupied  for 
several  years  was  exceedingly  damp.  He  entered  a  large 
vaulted  apartment  with  cracks  on  walls  and  ceiling,  and 
windows  overshadowed  by  the  wall  of  the  adjoining  house. 

In  the  corner  sat  Astro  the  imbecile,  his  feet  drawn  up 
under  him,  his  hands  busy  whittling  sticks,  while  he  purred 
his  monotonous  lullaby — 

Cucurlu,  curlu  I 
Eagles  and  cranes 
Up  they  flew ! 

Leonardo's  anxiety  perceptibly  increased. 

'What's  the  matter,  Astro?'  he  asked  kindly,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  cripple's  head. 

'Nothing,' said  Astro,  with  a  curious  look  of  intelligence, 
'  nothing  with  me.  It 's  Giovanni.  But  it 's  all  the  better  for 
him.     He  has  flown  away.' 

'Giovanni?  Where  is  Giovanni?'  cried  Leonardo,  sud- 
denly realising  that   his   forebodings   had   centred   on  this 


MICHELANGELO  AND  RAPHAEL     427 

unhappy  disciple.  '  Astro !  I  implore  you,  my  friend,  try  to 
remember !  Where  is  Giovanni  ?  I  must  see  him  at  once. 
Where  is  he  ?    What  has  happened  ? ' 

'Don't  you  understand?'  muttered  Astro,  vainly  seeking 
for  the  right  words.  'He  is  up  there — he  has  escaped — 
flown  away.  You  don't  understand  ?  I  will  show  you  then. 
It  is  better  for  him  to  have  flown  away.' 

He  rolled  himself  to  his  feet  and  shuffled  along  on  his 
crutches,  leading  his  master  up  the  creaking  stair  to  the  attic, 
where  the  sun  burned  hot  on  the  tiled  roof,  and  the  sunset 
rays  shone  upon  the  dormer-window.  As  they  entered, 
startled  pigeons  fluttered  their  wings  noisily  and  flew  away. 

*  There  he  is,'  said  Astro,  simply,  and  pointed  to  a  dark 
corner.  Leonardo  saw  the  figure  of  Giovanni,  apparently 
standing,  very  erect  and  quite  motionless,  his  widely  opened 
eyes  staring  fixedly  straight  before  him.  '  Giovanni ! '  cried 
Leonardo,  with  shaking  voice,  a  cold  sweat  bursting  out  on 
his  forehead. 

He  drew  nearer ;  saw  that  the  face  was  strangely  distorted  \ 
touched  the  nerveless  hand,  and  felt  it  cold.  The  body 
oscillated  heavily  to  and  fro.  Giovanni  had  hanged  himself 
from  an  iron  hook  lately  inserted  for  mechanical  purposes 
into  the  cross  beam ;  and  by  means  of  a  strong  silken  cord, 
one  of  the  attachments  of  the  flying  machine. 

Astro  had  fallen  back  into  his  torpor,  and  was  looking 
serenely  out  of  the  window.  The  house  stood  high,  and 
commanded  a  view  of  the  tiled  roofs,  the  domes  and  towers 
of  Rome,  of  the  Campagna  spreading  like  a  sea,  traversed  by 
long  lines  of  ruined  aqueducts,  of  the  hills  of  Albano  and 
Frascati,  of  the  clear  sky  where  the  swallows  swooped  and 
circled.  Astro  watched  them,  and  smiled,  and  waved  his 
arms  joyously  as  if  imitating  their  flight. 

Cucurlu ! 
Up  they  flew  1 
Curlu  1 

he  crooned  contentedly. 

Leonardo  stood,  still  as  a  stone,  between  his  two  disciples, 
the  imbecile  and  the  suicide. 

# 

A  few  days  later  he  found  Giovanni's  diary  and  read  it 
attentively. 


428  THE  FORERUNNER 

*The  white  witch  ! '  always  and  everywhere  !  May  she  be 
accursed.  The  last  mystery:  two  shall  be  in  one.  Christ 
and  Antichrist  are  one.  The  heaven  above — the  heaven 
below  ! 

*  No  !  No  !     This  shall  not,  must  not  be  !     Rather,  death  ! 

1  Into  thy  hands  I  commit  my  spirit,  O  God  !  Be  thou  my 
Judge ! » 

There  came  an  abrupt  end  to  the  entries.  Leonardo  under- 
stood that  these  words  had  been  penned  on  the  day  of  the 
writer's  suicide. 

II 

After  the  death  of  Giovanni,  Leonardo  wearied  of  his  life 
in  Rome.  Uncertainty,  waiting,  forced  inaction  enervated 
him.  His  usual  occupations,  his  books,  machines,  experi- 
ments, paintings  failed  in  interest. 

Leo  x.  had  not  yet  found  time  to  receive  him,  nor  to  give 
him  the  order  for  a  painting.  However,  he  set  the  artist  to 
the  mechanical  task  of  perfecting  the  coining  mill  for  the 
Papal  Mint.  Leonardo  despised  no  work,  however  humble ; 
he  did  what  was  required,  and  devised  new  machinery,  by 
means  of  which  the  coins,  uneven  and  jagged  before,  were 
cut  perfectly  true.  The  artist  was  at  this  time  overwhelmed 
with  debts,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  salary  went  in  the 
payment  of  the  interest  on  his  borrowings.  But  for  the 
generosity  of  Francesco  Melzi,  who  had  inherited  property 
from  his  father,  he  would  have  been  in  extreme  want. 

In  the  summer  of  15 14  he  was  attacked  by  the  malaria. 
It  was  his  first  serious  illness.  He  refused  doctors  and 
medicines,  but  allowed  Francesco  to  wait  upon  him.  Every 
day  he  became  more  attached  to  this  lad,  and  felt  that  God 
had  sent  him  a  guardian  angel,  a  prop  for  his  old  age.  Men 
seemed  to  be  forgetting  him,  but  from  time  to  time  he  made 
attempts  to  remind  them  of  his  existence.  From  his  sick-bed 
he  wrote  to  Giuliano  de'  Medici  with  striving  after  the  fashion- 
able compliments  which  did  not  come  easily  to  his  lips 
or  pen. 

After  much  rain  the  end  of  November  brought  sunny  days, 
never  so  beautiful  as  in  Rome,  where  the  decaying  splendour 


MICHELANGELO  AND  RAPHAEL     429 

of  autumn  harmonises  well  with  the  ruined  glories  of  the 
Eternal  City. 

One  morning  Leonardo  went  with  Francesco  to  see  the 
Sistine  Chapel  and  the  frescoes  of  Michelangelo ;  a  visit 
long  purposed,  but  deferred  as  if  from  a  secret  sense  of  fear. 

The  chapel  is  a  long,  narrow,  very  lofty  building,  with  plain 
walls  and  Gothic  windows.  Buonarroti  had  covered  the 
ceiling  and  arches  with  biblical  scenes.  Leonardo  looked, 
and  staggered,  as  if  faint ;  whatever  his  secret  expectation,  he 
had  never  thought  to  behold  such  potency  of  art. 

In  face  of  the  colossal  figures,  sublime  as  the  visions  of 
delirium — the  God  of  Sabaoth  dividing  light  from  darkness 
in  the  bosom  of  Chaos,  blessing  the  waters  and  plants,  creat- 
ing Adam  from  the  earth,  and  Eve  from  Adam's  rib — in  face 
of  the  representations  of  the  Fall,  the  Redemption  and  all  the 
incidents  of  Scripture  history ;  in  face  of  the  beautiful  nude 
youths,  spirits  of  the  elements  accompanying  the  tragedy 
of  the  Universe,  the  conflict  of  God  and  Man,  with  eternal 
dancing  and  song;  prophets  and  sibyls,  terrible  giants  that 
seemed  weighed  down  with  more  than  human  wisdom  and 
with  more  than  human  woe ;  the  ancestors  of  the  Messiah, 
a  long  file  of  obscure  patriarchs  passing  on  from  one  to  the 
other  the  purposeless  burden  of  life,  awaiting  in  darkness  the 
coming  of  the  unknown  Redeemer; — in  face  of  these  stupend- 
ous creations  of  his  rival  Leonardo  did  not  measure,  nor  com- 
pare nor  judge ;  he  felt  himself  and  his  work  annihilated. 

He  enumerated  his  own  productions  ;  the  Cenacolo,  which 
was  perishing,  the  Colossus,  which  had  been  destroyed,  the 
1  Battle  of  Anghiari,'  and  an  endless  number  of  other  unfinished 
paintings;  a  succession  of  vain  endeavours,  ridiculous  failures, 
inglorious  defeats.  He  had  spent  his  life  in  beginning, 
intending,  making  ready ;  he  had  achieved  nothing.  Why 
deceive  himself?  It  was  too  late  now;  he  would  never 
accomplish  anything.  His  life  had  been  expended  in  incredible 
labour;  yet  now  at  its  close  he  felt  like  the  slothful  servant 
in  the  parable  who  had  buried  his  talent  in  the  earth. 

Yet  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  aimed  at  something 
higher  than  this  other  man ;  to  Michelangelo  all  was  turmoil, 
chaos ;  Leonardo  had  seen,  and  had  tried  to  show,  the  eternal 
harmony.  He  remembered  Monna  Lisa's  parable  of  the 
mighty  wind,  and  of  the  still  small  voice  where  the  Lord  was ; 
he  felt  that  she  had  discerned  a  truth,  that  sooner  or  later 


43©  THE  FORERUNNER 

the  human  mind  would  return  to  the  path  he  had  shown,  the 
path  from  discord  to  harmony,  from  division  to  unity,  from 
storm  to  quietness.  The  consciousness  of  how  entirely  right 
he  had  been  in  theory  made  still  more  painful  to  him,  the 
consciousness  of  impotence  in  action. 

They  left  the  chapel  in  silence.  Francesco  ventured  no 
questions ;  but  he  fancied  that  the  Master  had  suddenly 
aged,  had  become  feeble  and  broken.  Years  had  apparently 
passed  since  they  had  entered  the  chapel. 

Crossing  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's,  they  went  by  the  Borgo 
Nuovo  towards  the  bridge  of  St.  Angelo.  Leonardo  was 
thinking  of  another  rival  whom  he  had  perhaps  no  less 
reason  to  fear,  Raphael  Sanzio.  He  had  seen  the  young 
painter's  newly  finished  frescoes  in  the  Stanze  of  the  Vatican, 
and  had  felt  unable  to  decide  whether  the  greatness  of 
the  execution  were  not  equalled  by  the  poverty  of  the 
conception,  the  perfection  of  eye  and  hand  by  the  servile 
flattery  of  the  princes  of  this  world.  Julius  n.  had  dreamed 
of  expelling  the  French  from  Italy;  therefore  Raphael  had 
shown  him  watching  the  expulsion  of  Heliogabalus  from  the 
profaned  temple  of  the  most  high  God.  Leo  x.  posed  as  a 
great  orator ;  therefore  Raphael  celebrated  him  in  the 
person  of  Leo  the  Great,  warning  Attila  to  retreat  from 
Rome.  He  had  been  taken  prisoner  by  the  French  and  had 
escaped ;  Raphael  represented  this  by  the  miraculous  deliver- 
ance of  St.  Peter.  Thus  he  degraded  his  art  into  the 
nauseous  incense  of  a  courtier's  flattery. 

This  stranger  from  Urbino,  this  dreamy  youth  with  the 
face  of  a  sinless  angel,  had  managed  his  mundane  affairs  to 
the  best  advantage.  He  painted  the  stables  of  Chigi  the 
banker ;  made  designs  for  the  table-service  of  gold  which, 
after  the  entertaining  of  the  Holy  Father,  the  banker  threw 
into  the  Tiber,  that  it  might  never  be  used  by  any  one  less 
illustrious.  The  '  fortunate  boy,'  as  Francia  called  the  young 
painter,  acquired  fame  and  wealth  as  if  by  play.  He  dis- 
armed his  worst  enemies  by  kindliness;  he  was  what  he 
appeared  to  be,  the  friend  of  all.  In  everything  he  succeeded. 
The  gifts  of  Fortune  dropped  unsought  into  his  hands.  He 
replaced  Bramante  on  the  architectural  conclave  for  the 
building  of  the  new  cathedral ;  Cardinal  Bibbiena  offered  him 
his  niece  in  marriage ;  it  was  said  he  had  been  promised  a 
cardinal's  hat.     He  built  a  dainty  mansion  in  the  Borgo,  and 


MICHELANGELO  AND  RAPHAEL     431 

iurnished  it  with  regal  splendour.  His  ante-chamber  was 
crowded  with  official  personages,  and  with  envoys  from  abroad, 
who  either  wanted  their  portraits  painted,  or  desired  to  take 
home  some  specimen  of  the  great  man's  art.  He  was  over- 
whelmed with  patrons  and  refused  new  ones.  They  insisted. 
Time  was  wanting  to  execute  his  innumerable  orders,  and 
many  of  his  pictures  were  chiefly  painted  by  his  pupils.  His 
studio  became  a  factory  where  such  skilful  workmen  as  Giulio 
Romano  turned  canvas  and  paint  into  ready-money  with 
amazing  facility.  He  himself  apparently  desisted  from  the 
search  after  perfection,  and  was  content  with  popularity.  He 
served  the  people,  and  they  accepted  him  enthusiastically  as 
their  chosen,  their  beloved,  bone  of  their  bone,  flesh  of  their 
flesh,  the  incarnation  of  their  own  spirit. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  that  in  his  fall  he  was  still  great ;  a 
seduction  not  only  to  the  vulgar  herd,  bnt  also  to  the  elect. 
He  seemed  unspoiled  by  the  glittering  baubles  showered  on 
him  by  Fortune.  He  remained  innocent  and  pure.  The 
fortunato  garzone  had  no  consciousness  of  the  danger  for 
himself  and  for  art.  For  in  this  superficial  harmony,  in 
this  pseudo-reconciliation  of  discordant  elements,  there  was 
greater  danger  for  the  future  than  in  the  chaos  and  contra- 
dictions and  wars  introduced  by  Michelangelo.  Leonardo 
could  see  nothing  beyond  the  work  of  these  two  painters; 
after  them,  all  seemed  abysmal  and  void.  He  felt  how 
much  both  owed  to  himself.  From  him  they  had  had  their 
science  of  light  and  shade,  their  anatomy,  their  perspective, 
their  knowledge  of  Nature  and  of  man.  Yes,  they  had 
grown  out  of  him  ;  and  now  the  two  of  them,  they  had 
destroyed  him  !  Leonardo  walked  silently  beside  his  young 
companion,  his  eyes  downcast,  his  head  bent,  his  face  intensely 
sorrowful  and  old :  he  seemed  in  a  trance. 

As  they  approached  the  bridge,  they  had  to  draw  aside 
to  give  room  to  a  cavalcade — some  great  man,  a  cardinal, 
perhaps,  or  an  ambassador,  escorted  by  sixteen  horsemen 
richly  attired.  The  personage  proved  a  young  man, 
sumptuously  clad,  riding  a  grey  Arab  with  gilded  and  jewelled 
trappings.  His  face  seemed  familiar  ;  and  suddenly  Leonardo 
remembered  the  pale  shy  youth  in  the  girlish  frock,  daubed 
with  paint  and  worn  into  holes  at  the  elbow,  who  eight  years 
before  had  said,  *  Michelangelo  is  not  worthy  to  tie  the  latchet 
of  your  shoe  ! ' 


432  THE  FORERUNNER 

Now  this  boy  was  the  rival  both  of  Leonardo  and  Michel- 
angelo, and  was  called  { the  God  of  Painting ' ! 

His  face,  though  still  boyish,  innocent,  and  unseared  by 
emotion,  was  somewhat  less  of  a  seraph's.  He  was  a  man  of  the 
great  world  now  ;  riding  from  his  villa  in  the  Borgo  to  an  inter- 
view with  the  pope,  he  was  accompanied  by  a  troop  of  pupils, 
admirers,  and  friends.  Indeed  he  never  went  out  with  an 
escort  of  less  than  fifteen.  His  every  ride  seemed  a  triumphal 
procession. 

He  recognised  Leonardo  ;  flushed  slightly,  and  with  quick, 
even  exaggerated  respect,  doffed  his  cap  and  bowed.  His 
younger  pupils  looked  wonderingly  at  the  old  man  to  whom 
the  *  Divine  One '  showed  so  much  respect ;  the  quiet  shabby 
old  man,  hugging  the  wall  to  let  the  cavalcade  dash  by. 

Leonardo's  attention  was  caught  by  the  man  riding  at 
Raphael's  side,  apparently  the  most  favoured  of  his  pupils. 
It  was  Cesare  da  Sesto.  Leonardo  gazed  in  amazement,  scarce 
able  to  believe  his  eyes.  Now  he  understood  Cesare's  long 
absence,  Francesco's  clumsy  explanation.  The  last  of  his 
disciples,  he  whom  he  had  trusted  to  follow  in  his  footsteps 
and  carry  on  his  method,  had  deserted  and  betrayed  him. 
Cesare  braved  his  gaze  without  flinching;  nay,  it  was 
Leonardo  whose  eyes  fell  in  confusion,  as  if  guilty  before  the 
other  of  some  unintended  crime. 

The  cavalcade  passed  on,  and  the  old  man,  leaning  upon 
Francesco,  went  his  way.  They  crossed  Hadrian's  bridge, 
and  went  by  the  Via  dei  Coronari  to  the  Piazza  Navona, 
where  was  the  bird  fair.  Leonardo  bought  magpies,  finches, 
thrushes,  pigeons,  a  falcon,  and  a  young  wild  swan.  He 
spent  all  the  money  he  had  with  him,  and  borrowed  also  of 
Francesco.  Slung  from  head  to  foot  with  cages,  the  quaint  pair 
attracted  general  attention.  The  passers-by  stared  curiously, 
the  little  boys  ran  after  them.  They  walked  past  the  Pantheon 
and  Trajan's  Forum,  crossed  the  Esquiline,  and  left  the  town 
by  the  Porta  Maggiore,  following  the  ancient  Roman  road 
called  the  Via  Labicana.  Presently  they  turned  into  a  narrow 
footpath  leading  into  the  solitude  of  the  wild  country. 

Before  them  spread  the  boundless,  the  silent,  the 
monotonous  Campagna  ;  through  the  arches  of  the  Claudian 
Aqueduct,  low  hills  were  seen,  uniform  grey-green,  like  sea 
waves  in  the  light  of  evening  ;  here  and  there  was  a  solitary 
tower,  the  deserted    nest  of  robber  knights;    misty  blue 


MICHELANGELO  AND  RAPHAEL     433 

mountains  surrounded   the   great  plain,  like  the   tiers  of  a 
colossal  amphitheatre. 

Over  the  city  brooded  the  great  peace  of  autumn  twilight. 
The  last  rays  of  the  sun,  streaming  from  between  heavy  clouds, 
lay  across  the  landscape  in  broad  zones  of  brilliance,  and 
shone  on  a  herd  of  white  cattle,  which  scarce  turned  their 
heads  at  the  sound  of  footsteps.  The  chirp  of  the  grasshopper, 
the  rustle  of  the  breeze  in  the  stalks  of  the  withered  summer 
flowers,  the  dull  sound  of  the  distant  bells,  but  enforced  the 
stillness ;  it  seemed  that  here  in  this  immense  plain,  so  desolate 
so  solemn,  had  already  been  fulfilled  the  prophecy  of  the  angel 
who  swore  by  him  that  liveth  for  ever  and  ever,  there  should  be 
time  no  longer.  They  chose  a  convenient  hillock,  and  relieved 
themselves  of  the  cages ;  then  Leonardo  set  the  birds  free. 

As  they  flew  away,  with  the  joyous  flutter  and  rustle  of 
their  wings,  he  followed  them  with  loving  eyes.  He  smiled, 
he  forgot  his  griefs,  and  was  happy  as  in  his  childhood. 
Only  the  falcon  and  the  swan  were  still  in  their  cages ;  their 
emancipation  was  reserved  for  a  later  hour. 

Now  he  and  Francesco  ate  a  frugal  supper  of  bread, 
chestnuts,  dried  cherries,  cheese,  a  flask  of  the  golden  Orvieto 
wine.  They  were  still  silent.  Francesco  glanced  at  his 
master  from  time  to  time.  Leonardo's  hair  was  silvered  and 
thin,  his  forehead  lined,  his  deep-set  eyes  were  still  luminous 
and  thoughtful,  but  weary.  Age  had  set  its  effacing  finger 
on  the  beauty  of  every  feature.  It  was  the  face  of  an 
enfeebled,  patient  Titan. 

Francesco  pitied  him,  as  he  pitied  all  persons  who  were 
lonely  and  sorrowful.  The  Master,  whom  of  all  men  he 
admired  and  loved,  whom  he  set  above  the  Michelangelo 
and  the  Raphael  of  the  people's  applause,  was  but  a  lonely 
and  poor  and  despised  old  man,  sitting  on  the  grass  among 
empty  bird-cages,  cutting  his  cheese  with  an  old  broken 
clasp-knife,  chewing  his  bread  with  an  effort  because  his  jaws 
were  weakened  by  age,  his  appetite  lost  by  recent  illness. 
A  lump  rose  in  Francesco's  throat,  and  he  would  gladly  have 
knelt  and  assured  his  friend  of  his  devotion,  but  he  did  not 
do  so — he  larked  the  courage.  At  all  times,  even  to  those 
who  loved  him  the  best,  Leonardo  showed  something  alien 
and  unapproachable. 

The  modest  supper  ended,  Leonardo  rose,  let  loose  the 
hawk,  then  opened  the  last  and  largest  cr.sje,  that  one  con- 
2  E 


434  THE  FORERUNNER 

taining  the  wild  swan.  The  great  white  bird  came  out  noisily, 
stood  dazzled  for  a  minute  flapping  its  wings,  then  flew 
straight  towards  the  sun.  Leonardo  watched  it  with  eyes 
full  of  unspoken  grief.  It  was  grief  for  the  idle  dream  of  his 
whole  life,  for  the  human  wings,  for  the  'Great  Bird'  of 
which  he  had  written  in  his  diary:  'Man  shall  fly  like  a 
mighty  swan.' 

IV 

At  last  the  Pope,  yielding  to  the  persuasions  of  his  brother 
Giuliano,  ordered  a  small  picture  from  Leonardo.  As  usual 
he  hesitated,  put  off  beginning  from  day  to  day,  spent  his 
time  in  preliminary  attempts,  in  perfecting  his  paints,  in  the 
invention  of  a  new  varnish. 

His  Holiness  exclaimed  in  mock  despair — 

'Alack!  this  dull  fellow  will  never  perform  anything;  he 
studies  the  end  before  he  has  mastered  the  beginning.' 

The  saying  was  repeated  by  the  courtiers,  and  all  over  the 
town,  and  it  sealed  the  fate  of  the  painter.  Leo,  the  supreme 
judge  in  matters  of  art,  had  pronounced  sentence.  Hence- 
forward Raphael,  Buonarroti,  Bembo  the  pedant,  and  Baraballo 
the  buffoon,  need  fear  no  rivalry;  the  pope  had  jested,  and 
the  painter's  reputation  was  crushed.  The  world  forgot  him, 
as  it  forgets  the  dead.  When  some  one  repeated  Leo's 
witticism  for  his  entertainment,  he  smiled  indifferently,  as  if 
mockery  were  no  worse  than  he  had  expected.  That  night 
however,  he  wrote  in  his  diary : — 

'  Patience  is  to  the  injured  what  clothes  are  to  the  frozen. 
With  keener  cold,  augment  your  clothing  and  it  shall  not  hurt 
you ;  with  the  increase  of  humiliation,  double  your  cloak  of 
patience.' 

Louis  xii.,  King  of  France,  died  in  15 15.  Having  no  son, 
his  crown  passed  to  his  nearest  relative,  Francis  of  Valois, 
Duke  of  Angouleme,  who  assumed  the  title  of  Francis  I. 

The  young  king  at  once  took  the  field  for  the  reconquest 
of  Lombardy.  He  crossed  the  Alps,  appeared  suddenly  in 
Italy,  gained  a  victory  at  Marignano,  deposed  II  Moretto, 
and  entered  Milan  in  triumph.  About  the  same  time 
Giuliano  de'  Medici  left  Rome  for  Savoy,  and  Leonardo,  out 
of  favour  with  the  Pope,  determined  to  try  his  fortune  with 
the  new  sovereign.     In  the  autumn  he  went  to  Pavia  to  the 


MICHELANGELO  AND  RAPHAEL     435 

court  of  Francis.  Here  the  conquered  were  celebrating  the 
conquest  and  the  glory  of  the  conqueror,  and  Leonardo  was 
at  once  invited  to  arrange  the  festival,  his  reputation  as 
mechanician  in  the  time  of  II  Moro  being  remembered.  He 
agreed;  and  amongst  other  things  constructed  a  lion  which 
ran  automatically  across  the  hall,  stood  rampant  before  the 
king,  and  opened  his  breast,  from  which  fell  a  shower  cf  the 
white  fleurs  de  lys.  This  toy  made  Leonardo  more  famous 
than  all  his  great  works,  inventions,  and  discoveries.  Francis 
was  anxious  to  see  Italian  scholars  and  artists  at  his  court,  but 
the  pope  refused  to  spare  either  Michelangelo  or  Raphael, 
so  Leonardo  was  offered  a  salary  of  seven  hundred  crowns 
and  the  little  chateau  of  Cloux,  in  Touraine,  near  the  town 
of  Amboise,  between  Tours  and  Blois. 

The  artist  accepted  the  offer ;  and  in  the  sixty-fourth  year 
of  his  life  began  once  more  his  endless  wandering;  left  his 
country  without  hope  of  return,  and  settled  in  the  foreign 
land.  He  was  accompanied  by  Francesco  Melzi,  Zoroastro, 
and  his  old  servants,  Battista  de  Villanis  and  the  fat  cook 
Maturina. 


The  road,  especially  in  winter,  was  difficult  j  it  led  through 
the  passes  of  Piedmont  and  Mont  Cenis.  Early,  while  it 
was  still  dark,  they  left  Bardonecchia,  so  as  to  cross  the 
Alps  before  nightfall.  The  mules  clattered  their  hoofs  and 
jangled  their  bells  as  they  clambered  along  a  narrow  path 
skirting  the  ravine.  Spring  had  descended  upon  the 
southern  valleys,  but  up  here  winter  reigned  supreme. 
The  morning  was  just  breaking ;  against  the  faintly  tinted  sky 
the  Alps  shone  as  if  lighted  by  internal  fire.  Leonardo, 
wishing  to  see  more  of  the  mountains,  left  his  beast,  and  with 
Francesco  followed  a  steeper  path  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  mule  track.  Perfect  stillness  surrounded  them,  only 
interrupted  by  the  distant  long-drawn  roar  of  an  avalanche. 
They  scrambled  higher,  Leonardo  leaning  on  the  young 
man's  arm.  Francesco  remembered  the  descent  of  the  iron- 
mine  when  the  Master  had  carried  him,  now  it  was  he  who 
supported  the  Master. 

*  Oh,  Messer  Leonardo  ! '  he  cried  suddenly,  pointing  to  the 
ravine  below,  *  look  at  the  valley  of  the  Dora !  We  see  it 
for  the  last  time!     We  are  almost  at  the  summit,  and  we 


436  THE  FORERUNNER 

shall  not  see  it  again !  Yon  lies  all  Lombanly !  Italy  ! '  he 
cried,  his  eyes  wet  with  conflicting  emotions ;  and  he  repeated, 
1  Lombardy !     Italy  1     For  the  last  time ! ' 

The  Master's  face  remained  unmoved.  He  looked,  then 
turned  silently  and  pressed  onward  towards  the  snows. 
Forgetting  his  weariness,  he  now  walked  so  quickly  that 
Francesco,  who  had  lingered  bidding  farewell,  was  left  behind. 

4  Nay,  Master,  whither  go  you  ? '  he  cried.  '  There  is  no 
path  there;  you  can  ascend  no  higher.  I  pray  you  take 
heed!' 

But  Leonardo  went  on,  higher  and  higher,  his  step  firm 
and  light,  as  if  his  feet  were  winged. 

Against  the  pale  sky  the  icy  masses  towered  one  above  the 
other;  a  stupendous  wall  raised  by  God  between  two  worlds. 
They  beckoned  to  Leonardo  and  drew  him  up  and  onwards. 
It  seemed  as  if  behind  them  rose  the  last  secret, — which 
alone  could  satisfy  his  soul.  Divided  from  him  by  impassable 
gulfs,  they  appeared  ne:ir,  almost  within  touch.  •  They  looked 
at  him  as  the  dead  look  at  the  living;  they  smiled  at  him 
with  the  smile  of  Monna  Lisa. 

His  pale  face  lighted  with  the  same  glow  that  was  shining 
upon  the  mountains  and  the  ice.  To  him  the  thoughts  of 
death  and  of  Monna  Lisa  were  now  but  one. 


BOOK    XVI! 

DEATH — THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR — 1516-1519 

$4pets  Trripvyat  ws  Ivwdels  d77^Xots. 

Inscription  on  the  figure  of  St.  John  the  Baptist 

(Thou  hast  wings,  like  unto  the  angels.) 

Spunteranno  le  ali. — Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

(There  shall  be  wings.) 


In  the  heart  of  France,  overhanging  the  Loire,  stood  the 
royal  castle  of  Amboise.  It  was  built  of  stone,  mellow  in 
colour  as  the  bloom  on  a  golden  plum,  which  in  the  pale  blues 
and  greens  of  the  fading  sunset  gleamed  soft  as  a  floating 
cloud.  From  the  square  tower  the  view  extended  over  a 
forest  of  primeval  oak,  beyond  the  broad  meadows  flanking 
the  river.  In  the  early  summer  they  were  brilliant  with 
poppies  invading  the  azure  lines  of  the  flax.  Damp  mists 
hung  over  the  valley,  dark  poplars  and  silvery  willows  stood 
in  long  rows.  It  resembled  the  plain  of  Lombardy  :  only  the 
rivers  were  unlike  each  other: — the  Adda,  a  torrent,  pas- 
sionate, storm-tossed,  young;  the  Loire,  quiet  and  slow, 
gliding  gently  over  shallows,  wearied  and  very  old. 

At  the  foot  of  the  castle  clustered  the  peaked  roofs  of  the 
town,  slated,  black,  smooth  and  shining  in  the  sun,  and 
among  them  massive  brick  chimneys.  The  streets,  narrow, 
winding,  and  sunless,  belonged  to  the  Middle  Ages.  Every- 
where, under  all  cornices  and  along  all  water-pipes,  at  the 
angles  of  the  windows,  door-frames,  lintels,  were  small  stone 
figures — jolly  friars  with  flagons,  rosaries  and  wooden  sandals, 

437 


4j8  THE  FORERUNNER 

grave  doctors  of  theology,  thrifty  citizens  with  fat  purses 
hugged  to  their  breasts.  The  same  types  were  to  be  seen 
to-day  walking  the  city  streets ;  all  here  was  bourgeois^  prosper- 
ous, conventional,  pious,  and  cold. 

When  the  king  came  to  Amboise  for  the  hunting,  the 
little  town  changed  its  aspect.  Tne  streets  grew  noisy  with 
the  baying  of  dogs,  the  champing  of  horses,  the  blare  of 
trumpets.  Music  resounded  nightly  from  the  palace,  and  its 
walls  shone  red  with  the  flaring  of  torches.  The  king  gone, 
silence  descended  again  upon  the  streets,  the  place  was  like 
an  abode  of  the  dead ;  no  human  step  nor  voice,  save  at 
mass-time  on  Sundays,  and  in  the  spring  evenings  when  the 
children  sang  the  old  song  of  St.  Denis  under  apple-trees 
which  showered  rosy  petals  on  their  heads.  Night  fell,  the 
song  was  hushed,  the  children  went  away,  and  again  there 
was  silence ;  such  silence  as  made  audible  the  measured  beat 
of  the  clock  over  the  gate  of  the  Horloge  Tower,  and  the  cry 
of  the  wild  swans  far  away  on  the  sand-banks  of  the  Loire. 

Half  a  league  from  the  castle,  on  the  road  to  the  Mill  of 
St.  Thomas,  was  a  small  chateau  called  Cloux,  once  the 
residence  of  the  royal  armourer.  It  was  surrounded  partly 
by  a  high  wall,  partly  by  a  stream ;  in  front  of  the  house  was 
a  meadow,  and  a  tangle  of  willows,  alders,  and  hazel  bushes 
descending  to  the  river.  The  pink  walls  of  the  chateau  were 
sharply  defined  against  a  background  of  chestnuts  and  elms ; 
the  windows  and  doors  ornamented  by  a  dog-tooth  moulding 
in  yellow  Touraine  stone.  It  was  a  small  building  with  a 
high-pitched  slatted  roof;  a  tiny  chapel  on  the  right  of  the 
main  entrance,  and  an  octagonal  tower,  in  which  was  a 
winding-stair,  made  it  resemble  a  villa.  Rebuilt  forty  years 
earlier,  the  outside  was  still  new,  cheerful,  and  inviting. 

This  little  chateau  Francis  I.  assigned  as  lodging  to 
Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

II 

The  king  received  the  artist  with  cordiality,  and  talked 
long  with  him  of  his  works,  past  and  future,  respectfully 
saluting  him  as  *  father*  and  'teacher.' 

Leonardo  proposed  to  remodel  the  castle  of  Amboise,  also 
to  construct  an  immense  canal,  which,  converting  the  barren 
marshes  into  a  luxuriant  garden,  should  connect  the  Loire 
and  the  Saone  at  Macon,  and  thus  open  a  new  route  from 


DEATH— THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR        439 

Northern  Europe  to  the  Mediterranean.  In  this  wise  he 
thought  to  benefit  a  foreign  country  by  those  gifts  of  know- 
ledge which  his  fatherland  had  contemned.  The  king  was 
pleased  by  the  project,  and  at  once  Leonardo  set  out  to 
explore  the  locality,  studying  the  soil  of  the  Sologne  near 
Romorantin,  the  tributaries  of  the  Loire  and  the  Cher,  the 
level  of  the  waters,  the  topography  of  the  whole  district. 

One  day  he  visited  Loches,  a  small  town  to  the  south  of 
Amboise,  where  was  the  castle  in  which  Ludovico  II  Moro, 
Duke  of  Lombardy,  had  been  incarcerated  for  eight  years. 
The  old  warden  told  Leonardo  how  II  Moro  had  once  made 
his  escape,  by  hiding  in  a  cart  loaded  with  straw;  not  know- 
ing the  roads,  however,  he  had  lost  his  way  in  the  forest,  and 
next  day  had  been  easily  recaptured.  His  last  years  had  been 
spent  in  pious  meditation,  in  prayer,  and  in  the  study  of 
Dante's  Commedia,  the  only  book  he  had  been  allowed  to 
bring  out  of  Italy.  At  fifty  he  was  a  feeble  wrinkled  old 
man;  only  at  rare  intervals  did  his  eyes  flash,  when  rumours 
reached  him  of  grave  political  changes.  He  died  in  May 
1508  after  a  short  illness. 

The  warden  told  further  how  Ludovico  had,  a  few  months 
before  his  death,  devised  a  pastime  for  himself;  had  begged 
for  brushes  and  paints  and  had  decorated  the  walls  and 
arches  of  his  prison.  Leonardo  found  traces  of  his  work 
on  the  damp  and  mouldy  plaster;  involved  patterns,  stripes 
and  bars ;  stars  and  crosses;  red  on  a  white,  yellow  on  a  blue 
ground;  in  the  middle,  the  helmeted  head  of  a  warrior, 
probably  himself,  thus  inscribed  in  broken  French,  '  Je porte 
en  prison  pour  ma  devise  que  je  m'arme  de  pacience  par  force  de 
peines  que  ton  me  fait  porter? 

Another  sentence  ran  all  round  the  ceiling;  it  began  with 
huge  letters :  *  Celui  qui,'  then,  space  failing,  continued  in 
characters  small  and  cramped,  '  net  pas  contan.'  Reading  these 
piteous  inscriptions  and  looking  at  the  clumsy  drawings, 
Leonardo  remembered  how  II  Moro  had  smiled  admiringly 
on  the  swans  in  the  moat  of  the  fortress  at  Milan.  '  Perhaps,' 
thought  he,  'the  love  of  beauty  which  is  certainly  in  his  soul 
will  justify  him  before  the  tribunal  of  the  Most  High.' 

Meditating  on  the  fall  of  the  hapless  duke,  he  remem- 
bered also  what  he  had  been  told  of  the  fate  of  another  of 
his  patrons,  Caesar  Borgia.  Julius  11.  had  treacherously 
handed  Caesar  over  to  his  enemies,  who  had  carried  him  to 


44°  THE  FORERUNNER 

Spain  and  confined  him  in  the  tower  of  Medina  del  Campo. 
Daring  and  ingenious,  he  escaped  by  means  of  a  rope  let 
down  from  his  prison  window.  The  jailers  had  time  to  sever 
the  rope ;  he  fell  and  was  seriously  hurt,  but  none  the  less 
crawled  to  the  horse  provided  by  an  accomplice,  and  rode 
away.  He  went  to  Pampeluna  to  the  court  of  his  brother-in- 
law,  the  King  of  Navarre,  where  he  took  service  as  a  con- 
dottiere. 

Consternation  spread  through  Italy;  the  pope  trembled; 
and  ten  thousand  ducats  were  set  upon  the  head  of  the 
fugitive.  On  a  wintry  night  of  1507  in  an  encounter  with 
the  French  mercenaries  under  Beaumont,  Caesar  was  deserted 
by  his  followers,  and  driven  into  the  dry  bed  of  a  river,  where, 
like  an  animal  at  bay,  he  defended  himself  with  desperate 
courage.  At  last  he  fell,  pierced  by  twenty  wounds.  The 
mercenaries  tore  the  splendid  trappings  from  the  dead 
warrior,  and  left  him  naked  where  he  had  fallen.  Later, 
when  the  Navarrese  came  to  seek  him  they  knew  him  not; 
only  Juanito,  his  little  page,  recognised  his  lord  by  reason  of 
his  great  love  for  him ;  and  flinging  himself  on  the  corpse  he 
embraced  it  sobbing.  Beautiful  was  the  dead  face,  upturned 
to  the  heavens;  and  it  seemed  he  had  died  even  as  he  had 
lived,  fearless,  and  without  knowledge  of  remorse.  Madonna 
Lucrezia,  Duchess  of  Ferrara,  wept  ever  for  her  brother;  and 
when  she  died  they  found  a  hair  shirt  chafing  her  tender  body. 
And  Caesar's  youthful  widow,  Charlotte  d'Albret,  who  in  the 
few  days  she  had  been  with  him  had  come  to  love  him  as  a 
very  Griselda,  having  learned  of  his  death,  retired  to  perpetual 
seclusion  in  the  castle  of  La  Motte  Feuillee,  buried  in  the 
heart  of  a  forest,  where  only  winds  rustled  the  dry  leaves; 
nor  used  to  leave  her  chamber,  hung  with  perpetual  mourn- 
ing, save  to  distribute  alms,  imploring  pensioners  to  pray 
for  the  soul  of  Caesar. 

And  likewise  the  duke's  subjects  in  Romagna,  husbandmen 
and  half-savage  shepherds  from  the  valleys  of  the  Apennine, 
kept  most  grateful  memory  of  him.  Long  they  refused  to 
believe  him  dead,  but  waited  for  him  as  a  god  who  should 
some  day  return  and  establish  justice  in  the  land,  cast  down 
the  tyrants,  and  defend  the  poor.  Beggars  who  wandered 
from  village  to  village  chanted  '  the  woeful  lament  for  the  Duca 
Valentino/  in  which  was  the  line — 

'  Fe'  cose  estreme,  ma  senza  misura.' 


DEATH— THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR        441 

Thus  Leonardo  mused  on  these  two  men,  Ludovico  and 
Cesare,  whose  lives  had  been  signalled  by  great  events,  yet 
had  passed  away  like  shadows,  leaving  no  trace.  And  he 
felt,  after  all,  that  his  own  life,  spent  in  lofty  contemplation, 
had  been  at  least  as  fruitful. 

Thus  thinking,  he  ceased  to  murmur  at  the  untowardness 
of  Fate. 


Ill 

Like  the  majority  of  Leonardo's  projects,  the  making  of 
the  Sologne  canal  ended  in  nothing.  Timorous  counsellors 
persuaded  Francis  of  the  impracticability  of  the  enterprise. 
His  Majesty  grew  cold,  was  disenchanted,  and  soon  forgot 
all  about  it ;  Leonardo  found  that  the  King  of  France  was 
no  more  to  be  relied  upon  than  II  Moro,  Soderini,  or  Leo  x. 
He  resolved  to  abandon  all  hope  of  enriching  mankind  by 
the  treasures  of  his  knowledge,  and  to  retire  for  the  rest  of  his 
life  into  solitude. 

In  the  spring  of  151 7  he  returned  to  Cloux,  sick  of  fever 
contracted  in  the  marshes  of  the  Sologne.  He  recovered 
partially,  and  by  the  summer  season  had  strength  sufficient 
to  leave  his  room,  and  leaning  on  Francesco's  arm  to  walk 
daily  as  far  as  to  the  woods.  Here  he  would  sit  in  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  his  pupil  at  his  feet.  Sometimes 
Francesco  read  to  him  ;  sometimes  he  was  content  merely  to 
enjoy  the  sights  and  sounds  of  peaceful  nature,  gazing  at  the 
sky,  the  leaves,  the  stones,  the  grasses,  the  golden  moss  on 
the  huge  tree-trunks,  as  if  bidding  them  all  a  last  farewell.  A 
sorrowful  presentiment,  a  great  pity  for  the  Master  oppressed 
Francesco's  heart.  Silently  he  would  touch  Leonardo's  hand 
with  his  lips ;  and  then  feel  that  trembling  hand  laid  upon 
his  head  in  a  mournful  caress,  which  deepened  his  sense 
of  a  coming  doom. 

At  this  time  the  Master  began  a  strange  picture. 

Sheltered  by  overhanging  rocks,  in  a  cool  shadow  among 
flowering  grasses,  sat  a  god  ;  he  was  long-haired  and  fair  as  a 
woman,  but  languid  and  pale ;  his  head  crowned  with  vine- 
leaves,  a  spotted  skin  round  his  loins,  a  thyrsus  in  his  hand. 
He  sat  with  legs  crossed  and  seemed  to  be  listening,  a  hinting 
smile  on  his  lips,  his  finger  pointed  in  the  direction  whence 
came  the  sound,  perhaps  the  song  of  Maenads,  perhaps  the 


442  THE  FORERUNNER 

# 

voice  of  great  Pan,  that  thrilling  sound  from  which  all  living 
things  must  flee. 

In  Boltraffio's  casket  Leonardo  had  found  an  amethyst 
gem,  doubtless  a  gift  from  Monna  Cassandra,  with  an 
engraving  of  Dionysus.  There  were  also  strny  leaves  from 
Euripides'  tragedy,  the  Bacchce,  translated  from  the  Greek 
and  copied  out  by  Giovanni.  Many  times  had  Leonardo 
read  these  fragments ;  amongst  them  the  address  of  Pentheus 
to  the  unknown  god. 

'  Ha  !  of  thy  form  thou  art  not  ill-favoured,  stranger, 
For  woman's  tempting ! 
No  wrestler  thou,  as  show  thy  flowing  locks 
Down  thy  cheek  floating,  fraught  with  all  desire j 
And  white  from  heedful  tendance  is  thy  skin, 
Smit  by  no  sunshafts,  but  made  wan  by  shade, 
While  thou  dost  hunt  desire  with  beauty's  lure.' 

And  the  chorus  of  Bacchantes,  answering  the  impious  king, 
extol  Dionysus  as  'the  most  terrible,  the  most  beneficent  of 
gods,  who  giveth  to  mortals  the  drunkenness  of  ecstasy.' 

On  the  same  page,  side  by  side  with  the  verses  from 
Euripides,  Giovanni  had  copied  verses  from  the  Bible. 

Leaving  his  Bacchus  unfinished,  Leonardo  began  another 
picture,  still  more  strange,  of  St.  John  the  Baptist.  He 
worked  at  it  more  continuously  and  more  rapidly  than  was 
his  wont,  as  if  feelimr  that  his  days  were  numbered,  that  his 
strength  was  every  day  declining,  and  that  now  or  never  he 
must  give  expression  to  that  mystery  which  all  his  life  he  had 
hidden  from  men, — even  from  himself. 

Soon  the  picture  was  sufficiently  advanced  for  the  con- 
ception to  be  clear.  The  background  was  dark,  recalling  the 
gloom  of  that  cavern  he  had  once  described  to  Monna  Lisa 
as  the  occasion  both  of  curiosity  and  of  fear.  Yet  the  dimness 
was  not  impenetrable,  but  blent  with  light,  melting  into  it  as 
smoke  dissolves  into  sunlight,  as  distant  music  vibrates  away 
into  silence.  And  between  the  darkness  and  the  perfect  light 
appeared  what  at  first  seemed  a  phantom,  but  presently 
snowed  more  distinct  than  life  itself;  the  face  and  figure  of  a 
naked  youth,  womanish,  seductively  beautiful,  recalling  the 
words  of  Pentheus. 

But  instead  of  the  leopard's  skin  he  wore  a  garment  of 
camel's  hair;  instead  of  the  thrysus  he  carried  a  cross. 
Smiling,  with  bent  head,  as  if  listening,  all  expectation,  all 


DEATH— THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR        443 

curiosity,  yet  half  afraid,  he  pointed  with  one  hand  to  the 
cross,  with  the  other  to  himself,  and  on  his  lips  the  words 
seemed  to  tremble : — ■ 

*  There  cometh  one  after  me  whose  shoe's-latchet  I  am  not 
worthy  to  unloose.' 

IV 

After  a  tedious  morning  spent  in  touching  for  the  king's 
evil,  Francis  1.  felt  a  desire  for  something  beautiful  to  divert 
his  mind  from  the  spectacle  of  deformity  and  sickness.  He 
resolved  to  visit  Leonardo's  studio.  Accordingly,  with  a  few 
attendants,  he  presented  himself  at  Cloux. 

All  day  the  painter  had  worked  at  his  Baptist.  His  room 
was  large  and  cold,  with  a  brick  floor  and  a  high-raftered 
ceiling.  The  last  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  streamed  in 
through  the  narrow  window;  and  Leonardo  was  hastening  to 
finish  his  day's  task  before  the  coming  on  of  twilight.  When 
he  heard  voices  and  footsteps  under  the  window,  he  said  to 
Melzi : — 

*  I  admit  no  one.     Say  I  am  ill.' 

Francesco  went  out  obediently  to  stop  the  intruders ;  but 
seeing  the  king  he  bowed  respectfully  and  threw  open  the 
doors.  Leonardo  had  barely  time  to  cover  the  portrait  of 
La  Gioconda  ;  this  he  always  did  if  he  expected  strangers. 

Francis  entered;  he  was  richly  but  gaudily  dressed,  with 
excess  of  jewellery  and  gold  trimmings.  He  was  twenty-four 
years  of  age,  well  built,  tall  and  strong,  majestic,  and  of 
agreeable  manners.  Yet  there  was  something  displeasing  in 
his  face,  something  at  once  sensual  and  sly,  suggestive  of  a 
satyr. 

He  refused  to  allow  Leonardo  to  kneel,  bowed  respectfully 
himself,  and  even  embraced  the  aged  painter. 

1  It  is  long  since  we  saw  each  other,  Maitre  Leonard,'  he 
said.  *  How  is  your  health  ?  Do  you  paint  much  ?  Have 
you  done  many  new  pictures  ?  What  is  that  one  ? '  and  he 
pointed  to  the  curtained  Monna  Lisa. 

'An  old  portrait,  sire,  which  your  Majesty  has  already 
seen.' 

*  Let  me  see  it  again.  The  oftener  one  sees  your  pictures 
the  more  one  admires  them.' 

The  painter  hesitated,  but  to  his  annoyance  a  courtier 
removed  the  veil,  and  La  Gioconda  was  revealed. 


444  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  !:ing,  throwing  himself  on  a  chair,  gazed  long  without 
a  word.  *  Marvellous ! '  he  exclaimed  at  last.  *  That  is  the 
fairest  woman  I  ever  saw  !     Who  is  she?' 

•  Madonna  Lisa,  wife  of  a  Florentine  citizen.' 

•  Did  you  paint  it  lately?' 

•  Ten  years  ago.' 

'  Is  she  still  beautiful  ? ' 

'  Sire,  she  is  dead.' 

c  Maitre  Leonard  da  Vinci,'  said  Saint  Gelais,  the  court 
poet,  'worked  five  years  at  yon  portrait,  and  has  left  it 
unfinished — so  at  least  he  avers.' 

'Unfinished?'  cried  the  king.  'I  pray  you,  what  does  it 
lack?  She  seems  alive — on  the  point  to  speak.  You  are 
enviable,  Maitre  Leonard !  Five  years  with  that  woman ! 
Had  she  not  died,  I  trow,  you  would  not  have  finished  it  yet.' 
He  laughed,  and  the  resemblance  to  a  satyr  increased.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  Monna  Lisa  might  have  been  a 
faithful  wife. 

'  I  see,  sir,  you  have  a  pretty  taste  in  women,'  resumed  His 
Majesty  gaily.  'What  shoulders  !  what  a  bosom  !  And  one 
may  guess  at  further  beauties ! ' 

Leonardo  remained  silent ;  he  grew  pale,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  ground. 

'To  paint  such  a  likeness,'  continued  the  king,  ' 'tis  not 
enough  to  be  an  artist ;  you  must  fathom  all  the  secrets  of  a 
woman's  heart,  that  labyrinth,  that  tangle,  impossible  to  the 
devil  himself.  Yon  lady  seems  modest ;  she  folds  her  hands 
like  a  nun  ;  but  wait  a  bit ;  guess  what  is  in  her  heart. 
'  Souvent  femme  varie 
Bien  fol  qui  s'y  fie  !  * 

Leonard  stepped  aside,  as  if  to  move  another  picture  to  the 
light,  and  Saint  Gelais  whispered  scandal  to  his  master  con- 
cerning Leonardo's  supposed  tastes  in  matters  of  the  heart. 

Francis  seemed  surprised,  but  shrugged  his  shoulders 
indulgently,  and  turned  to  an  unfinished  cartoon  on  an  easel 
near  the  portrait 

'What  is  this?' 

'  Bacchus,  methinks/  said  the  poet,  pointing  to  the  thyrsus. 

'And  this?' 

•  It  would  seem,  Bacchus  again,'  said  Saint  Gelais. 

'  The  hair  and  the  breast  are  like  a  girl,'  said  the  king ;  '  it 
has  the  same  smile  as  La  Gicconda.' 


DEATH-THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR         445 

'  A  hermaphrodite  then/  returned  the  poet ;  and  repeated 
Plato's  fable  of  the  original  men-women,  and  the  origin  of  the 
passion  of  Love.  *  Maitre  Leonard  would  fain  restore  the 
primitive  type/  he  concluded  mockingly. 

Francis  turned  to  the  painter. 

'  Resolve  our  doubts,  Master,'  he  said ;  *  is  it  Bacchus  or  a 
hermaphrodite  ? ' 

1  Sire,'  said  Leonardo,  reddening,  *  it  is  St.  John  the  Baptist/ 

The  king  shook  his  head  in  bewilderment.  This  mixture 
of  the  sacred  and  the  profane  seemed  blasphemous  to  him, 
yet  rather  attractive.  Not  that  the  blasphemy  mattered ; 
every  one  knows  that  painters  have  queer  fancies  ! 

■ 1  will  buy  both  pictures,'  he  said ;  'the  Bacchus— I  mean 
the  Baptist,  and  Lisa  la  Gioconda.     What  is  the  price?' 

'Your  Majesty,' began  the  painter,  embarrassed,  'they  are 
not  yet  finished.' 

1  Tut,  man  !  St.  John  you  can  finish  at  once,  and  as  for 
Lisa,  I  will  not  have  her  touched.  I  want  her  with  me  at 
once,  hear  you  ?  Tell  me  the  price,  and  fear  not.  I  will  not 
try  to  cheapen  her.' 

What  was  Leonardo  to  say  to  this  frivolous  coarse  man  ? 
How  explain  what  the  portrait  was  to  its  painter,  and  why  no 
price  could  induce  him  to  give  it  up? 

*  You  will  not  speak  ?  Then  I  will  name  a  price  myself. 
Three  thousand  crowns?  How  say  you?  'Tis  not  enough? 
Three  and  a  half?' 

'  Sire,'  implored  the  artist,  his  voice  shaking ;  '  I  can  assure 
you ' 

1  Well !  well !  Maitre  Leonard,  four  thousand  ? ' 

A  murmur  of  astonishment  came  from  the  courtiers.  Not 
Lorenzo  de'  Medici  himself  had  ever  set  such  a  price 
upon  a  picture.  Leonardo  raised  his  eyes  in  unutterable 
confusion.  He  was  ready  to  fall  on  his  knees,  to  beg  as  men 
beg  for  their  lives,  that  he  might  not  be  robbed  of  La 
Gioconda.  Francis  took  his  embarrassment  for  gratitude, 
rose  to  leave,  and  as  a  farewell,  again  embraced  the  painter. 

'Then  that's  settled.  Four  thousand  crowns,  and  the 
money  is  ready  for  you  when  you  choose.  To-morrow  I  shall 
send  for  her.  Make  yourself  easy.  I  will  hang  her  with 
such  honour  as  shall  content  you.  I  know  her  value !  I  will 
preserve  her  for  posterity !' 

When  the  king  had  gone,  Leonardo  sank  into  a  chair, 


446  THE  FORERUNNER 

looking  at  his  picture,  scarce  believing  what  had  happened 
Absurd,  childish  devices  suggested  themselves  to  him :  he 
would  hide  the  portrait;  he  would  refuse  to  give  it  up, 
though  threatened  with  capital  punishment.  He  would 
send  Melzi  to  Italy  with  it — nay,  he  would  flee  himself. 

Night  fell.  Francesco  looked  several  times  into  the  room, 
but  did  not  venture  to  speak.  Leonardo  still  sat  before 
Monna  Lisa,  his  face  pale  and  rigid  as  that  of  a  corpse. 
At  midnight  he  went  into  Francesco's  room. 

*  Get  up<  We  must  go  to  the  castle.  I  have  to  see  the 
king.' 

*  Master,  it  is  late.  You  are  weary.  You  have  not  the 
strength.     Let  us  wait  for  the  morrow.' 

'No,  it  must  be  now.  Light  me  the  lantern,  and  come 
with  me.     If  you  will  not,  I  will  go  alone.' 

Francesco  rose  and  dressed  himself,  and  they  went  together 
to  the  castle 


The  walk  took  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  the  path  was  steep 
and  badly  paved.  Leonardo  moved  slowly,  leaning  on  the 
young  man's  arm.  It  was  a  warm  and  starless  night,  black 
as  the  pit.  The  boughs  of  the  trees  swayed  painfully  under 
the  gusts  of  wind.  There  were  lights  in  the  castle  windows, 
and  music  made  itself  heard.  The  king  was  supping  late 
with  a  small  company,  and  amusing  himself  by  making  the 
young  ladies  of  the  court  drink  from  a  silver  cup  chased  with 
obscene  figures.  Among  these  ladies  was  his  sister  Mar- 
guerite, called  *  The  Pearl  of  Pearls,'  and  celebrated  for  her 
beauty  and  erudition.  'The  art  of  pleasing  was  more 
important  to  her  than  daily  bread,'  so  said  her  admirers.  At 
heart,  however,  she  was  indifferent  to  all  except  her  brother, 
to  whom  she  was  devotedly  attached.  His  weaknesses  seemed 
to  her  charms,  his  vices  strength,  his  faun's  mask  the  coun- 
tenance of  Apollo.  For  him  she  declared  herself  ready  not 
merely  to  scatter  the  ashes  of  her  body  to  the  wind,  but  to 
sell  her  immortal  soul.  Francis  abused  her  affection,  for  he 
made  use  of  her  not  only  in  difficulties  and  dangers,  but 
also  in  his  amorous  adventures. 

Leonardo's  coming  was  announced ;  and  Francis,  having 
sent  for  him  to  the  supper-room,  advanced  with  his  sister  to 
greet   him.      The  cavaliers  and   court-ladies    watched    the 


DEATH— THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR        447 

artist's  entry  with  glances  half  respectful,  half  contemptuous. 
The  tall  old  man,  with  the  long  hair,  the  melancholy  face, 
the  nervous  manner,  seemed  to  have  dropped  from  an  alien 
sphere,  and  sent  a  chill  through  the  company  as  if  he  had 
come  out  of  a  snowstorm. 

'Ah  !  Maine  Leonard !'  cried  the  king  with  his  customary 
cordiality,  '  you  are  a  rare  guest.  What  shall  we  offer  you  ? 
You  eat  no  flesh,  I  know ;  but  you  will  partake  of  sweetmeats 
and  fruit?' 

'  I  thank  your  Majesty.  Sire,  you  will  excuse  me ;  I  am 
fain  to  speak  a  few  words  with  your  Majesty.' 

Francis  led  him  aside,  and  asked  if  Marguerite  might  be 
present. 

'I  venture  to  hope  that  her  Highness  will  intercede  for 
me,'  said  Leonardo  with  a  bow.  Then  he  spread  out  his 
hands  to  the  sovereign.  'I  come,  sire,  about  my  picture, 
which  your  Majesty  has  desired  to  buy — the  portrait  of 
Monna  Lisa.' 

*  Had  we  not  agreed  upon  the  price  ? '  asked  the  king. 

*  I  come  not  about  money,'  said  Leonardo. 
1  Then  what  is  the  matter  ? ' 

The  painter  felt  again  that  to  speak  of  La  Gioconda  to  this 
indifferent  affable  young  monarch  was  impossible.  Never- 
theless he  forced  himself  to  say  : — 

'  Sire,  be  merciful  to  me.  Do  not  take  this  portrait  from 
me.  It  shall  be  yours ;  I  ask  no  money  for  it.  Only  leave  it 
with  me  till — my  death.' 

He  paused,  looking  entreatingly  at  Marguerite. 

The  king  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  frowned. 

*  Sire ! '  said  the  young  lady,  '  grant  the  prayer  of  Maitre 
Leonard.     He  deserves  it !     Be  compassionate  !' 

*  What,  Madame  Marguerite,  are  you  on  his  side?  A  plot, 
I  declare,  a  plot !  a  plot ! ' 

Laying  her  hand  on  her  brother's  shoulder,  she  whispered: — 
'  Do  you  not  see  ?     He  still  loves  her  .'' 

'But  she  is  dead!' 

'Do  men  never  love  the  dead?  You  said  yourself  she 
lived  in  her  portrait !  Leave  him  his  memorial  of  her.  Do 
not  afflict  the  old  man  ! ' 

Francis  had  a  dim  recollection  of  having  somewhere  heard 
of  eternal  unions  of  soul,  of  fidelity,  of  love  that  had  no 
grossness  in  it.     He  felt  inspired  by  magnanimity. 


443  THE  FORERUNNER 

'You  have  a  sweet  intercessor,  Maitre  Leonard.  Be  of 
good  cheer.  I  will  do  as  you  ask;  only  remember  the 
picture  belongs  to  me,  and  you  shall  receive  the  money  at 
once.' 

Something  wistful  and  plaintive  in  Leonardo's  eyes  touched 
the  king,  and  he  tapped  him  good-naturedly. 

'  Fear  not  1  I  give  you  my  word  I  None  shall  part  you 
from  your  Lisa ! ' 

Marguerite  smiled  and  her  eyes  shone.  She  gave  her  hand 
to  the  painter,  who  kissed  it  fervently  and  in  silence. 

The  band  struck  up  and  dancing  began.  No  one  thought 
any  more  of  the  uncourtly  guest,  who  had  come  in  like  a 
shadow  and  vanished  again  into  the  starless  night. 

VI 

As  soon  as  the  king  went  away  the  usual  quiet  settled 
upon  Amboise.  Leonardo  worked  on  at  his  St.  John,  but  as 
the  picture  advanced  it  became  more  difficult,  and  his 
progress  was  less  rapid.  Sometimes  in  the  twilight  he 
would  lift  the  veil  from  the  portrait  of  Monna  Lisa,  gaze 
long  at  it,  and  then  at  St.  John,  which  stood  beside  it. 
Apparently  he  was  comparing  the  two  pictures.  Francesco, 
watching  breathlessly,  fancied  at  those  times  that  the 
expression  of  the  two  faces,  the  woman's  and  the  youth's, 
mysteriously  changed ;  they  stood  out  from  the  canvas  like 
apparitions,  and  under  the  fixed  gaze  of  the  painter  lived 
with  a  supernatural  life.  St.  John  grew  like  Monna  Lisa, 
and  like  Leonardo  himself,  even  as  a  son  resembles  his 
parents. 

Meantime  the  Master's  health  was  declining.  Melzi 
begged  him  to  rest  and  leave  his  work,  but  this  he  resolutely 
refused  to  do.  One  day,  in  the  autumn  of  151 8,  he  was 
greatly  indisposed.  He  desisted  earlier  than  usual  from  his 
work,  and  asked  Francesco  to  help  him  to  his  bedroom. 
The  winding  stair  was  steep,  and  often  of  late  he  had  been 
unable  to  ascend  it  without  assistance.  So  Francesco  sup- 
ported him,  and  he  went  up  slowly,  halting  frequently  to 
recover  his  breath.  Suddenly  he  staggered  and  fell  into  the 
young  man's  arms.  Francesco  called  the  old  servant  Battista 
Villanis.  Together  they  lifted  the  Master  and  carried  him 
to  his  bedroom. 


DEATH— THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR  449 

He  lay  six  weeks  in  bed,  refusing  all  medical  advice 
according  to  his  wont.  His  right  side  was  paralysed,  his 
right  arm  useless.  The  winter  found  him  better,  but  his 
recovery  was  slow.  He  was  ambidextrous,  but  required 
both  hands  at  once  for  his  work.  With  the  left  he  drew, 
with  the  right  he  painted ;  and  he  maintained  that  it  was  this 
division  of  labour  which  had  given  him  superiority  over 
other  painters.  He  feared  now  that  painting  had  become 
impossible  to  him.  In  the  early  days  of  December  he  rose 
from  his  bed,  and  before  long  came  downstairs  to  his 
painting-room,  but  did  not  resume  his  work. 

One  day  at  the  hour  of  siesta,  Francesco,  not  finding  him 
in  the  upper  rooms,  cautiously  opened  the  studio  door  and 
looked  in.  Of  late  Leonardo  had  been  increasingly  dis- 
inclined to  society ;  he  spent  many  hours  alone,  and  would 
allow  no  one  to  enter  unbidden.  Francesco,  peeping  now 
through  the  half-opened  door,  saw  him  standing  before  the 
picture  of  St.  John,  and  trying  to  paint  with  his  disabled 
hand.  His  face  was  distorted  by  the  anguish  of  effort,  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  drooped,  the  brows  were  contracted, 
and  the  strands  of  grey  hair,  falling  over  his  forehead,  were 
bathed  in  sweat.  His  fingers  would  not  obey  him,  and  the 
brush  shook  in  the  hands  of  the  great  Master  as  in  the  hand 
of  a  clumsy  beginner.  With  bated  breath  Francesco  watched 
this  last  struggle  between  the  living  spirit  and  the  dying  body. 

VII 

That  year  the  winter  was  very  severe.  Drifting  ice  broke 
the  bridges  of  the  Loire,  people  were  frozen  on  the  roads, 
wolves  came  into  the  suburbs  of  the  town,  and  prowled  even 
under  the  windows  of  the  chateau.  One  morning  Francesco 
found  a  half-frozen  swallow  on  the  verandah  and  carried  it  to 
Leonardo,  who  revived  it  with  the  warmth  of  his  breath,  and 
established  it  in  a  cage  near  the  fire,  meaning  to  restore  it  to 
liberty  in  the  spring.  The  Master  no  longer  attempted  to 
paint,  and  had  hidden  the  unfinished  picture  with  his  brushes 
and  paints  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  studio.  The  days 
went  by  in  idleness.  Sometimes  the  notary  visited  them  and 
talked  of  the  harvests,  the  salt  tax,  and  the  comparative 
merits  of  Languedoc  and  Limousin  sheep.  Sometimes 
Francesco's  confessor  came,  Fra  Guglielmo,  an  Italian  by 
2  F 


45<> 


THE  FORERUNNER 


birth,  but  long  settled  at  Amboise,  a  simple  pleasant  old 
man,  who  could  tell  stories  about  the  Florence  of  his  youth 
which  made  Leonardo  laugh. 

The  early  twilight  came  on,  and  the  visitors  took  their 
departure.  Then  for  hours  at  a  time  Leonardo  would  pace 
up  and  down  the  room,  occasionally  glancing  at  Astro.  Now 
more  than  ever  the  cripple  seemed  to  him  a  living  reproach, 
the  mockery  of  the  one  great  aim  of  his  life,  the  making  of 
wings  for  men.  Astro  sat  in  a  corner,  his  feet  drawn  up 
under  him,  winding  long  strips  of  linen  on  a  stidc,  whittling 
sticks,  carving  tops,  or  with  his  eyes  blinking  he  would  rock 
himself  slowly  and,  smiling,  sing  his  unchanging  song : — 

■  Cucurlu  !  Curlu  ! 
Eagles  and  cranes, 
Up  they  flew  !  ■ 

At  last  it  became  quite  dark,  and  silence  descended  upon  the 
house.  Out  of  doors  the  boughs  of  the  old  trees  creaked  and 
roared  in  the  storm,  and  the  roar  was  like  the  voice  of 
malignant  giants.  The  eerie  howling  of  wolves  was  heard  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  forest.  Francesco  piled  logs  on  the  fire, 
and  Leonardo  sat  down  beside  it.  The  young  man  played 
on  the  lute  and  could  sing  very  pleasantly.  He  tried  to 
dispel  the  Master's  melancholy  by  his  music ;  once  he  sang 
him  an  old  song  composed  by  Lorenzo  II  Magnifico  for  the 
'Mask  of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,'  a  favourite  with  Leonardo, 
who  had  known  it  in  his  youth : — 

'  Quant'  e  bella  giovinezza 
Ma  sen  fugge  tuttavia  ? 
Chi  vuol  esser  lieto,  sia ; 
Di  doman  non  v'e  certezza.' 

The  Master  listened,  greatly  moved;  he  remembered  the 
summer  night,  the  dark  shadows,  the  brilliant  moonlight  in 
the  lonely  street,  the  sounds  of  the  lute  from  the  marble 
loggia,  the  same  tender  love-song.  And  he  remembered, 
too,  his  thoughts  of  La  Gioconda.  Francesco,  sitting  at  the 
old  man's  feet,  looked  up  and  saw  that  tears  were  falling 
from  the  fading  eyes. 

Sometimes  Leonardo  would  read  over  his  old  diaries,  and 
occasionally  he  still  wrote  in  them,  but  of  the  subject  which 
now  chiefly  occupied  his  thoughts— Death. 

•Thou  see'st  that  thy  hope  and  thy  desire  to  return  to 
thy  native  land,  and  to  thy  old  life,  is  like  the  desire  of  the 


DEATH— THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR  451 

moth  for  the  flame,  and  that  Man  (who,  ceaseless  in  desire, 
joyous  in  impatience,  ever  awaits  a  new  spring,  and  thinketh 
that  his  desire  is  slow  in  its  fulfilment)  does  not  know  that  he 
expecteth  but  his  own  destruction  and  his  end.  But  this 
expectation  is  the  quintessence  of  nature,  the  soul  of  the 
elements,  and  finding  itself  in  the  soul  of  man,  it  is  the  desire 
to  return  from  the  body  unto  Him  who  made  it.' 

1  In  nature  nothing  exists  but  Force  and  Movement ;  and 
force  is  the  volition  of  happiness,  the  eternal  striving  of  the 
universe  after  final  equilibrium  and  the  Prime  Mover.' 

'  Every  part  desires  to  be  united  with  its  whole  that  it  may 
escape  imperfection. ' 

cAs  the  day  well  spent  gives  pleasant  dreams,  life  well 
lived  shall  give  a  happy  death.' 

'Every  evil  leaves  bitterness  in  the  memory,  except  the 
greatest  evil,  which  is  death,  for  it  destroys  the  memory 
together  with  the  life.' 

'  When  I  thought  I  was  learning  to  live,  I  was  but  learning 
how  to  die.' 

'The  outward  necessity  of  nature  corresponds  with  the 
outward  necessity  of  reason :  everything  is  reasonable,  all  is 
good,  because  all  is  necessary.' 

Thus  his  reason  justified  death,  the  will  of  the  Prime 
Mover ;  yet  in  the  depth  of  his  heart  something  rebelled. 

Once  he  dreamed  that  he  awoke  in  a  coffin  buried  alive 
under  the  earth,  and  with  desperate  resolution  and  panting 
for  breath  he  strove  to  raise  the  lid  of  his  prison. 

Next  morning  he  told  Francesco  of  his  desire  that  he 
should  lie  unburied  till  the  first  signs  of  decomposition 
should  show  themselves.  He  still  loved  life  with  a  blind 
unreasoning  love,  still  clung  to  it  and  dreaded  death  as  a 
black  pit  into  which  that  day  or  the  next  he  would  fall  with 
a  cry  of  the  utmost  terror.  All  the  consolations  of  reason, 
all  he  had  said  of  divine  necessity  and  the  will  of  the  Prime 
Mover,  vanished  like  smoke  before  this  shrinking  of  the  flesh. 
He  would  have  relinquished  his  immortality  for  one  ray  of 
earthly  sunshine,  one  waft  of  the  spring,  for  the  perfume 
of  expanding  leaves,  for  a  bunch  of  yellow  flowers  from  the 
Monte  Albano,  where  he  had  been  a  happy  child. 

At  night,  when  he  could  not  sleep,  Francesco  would  read 
to  him  from  the  Gospels.  Never  had  they  seemed  to  him  so 
new,  so  rare  in  excellence,  so  little  understood  of  men. 


453  THE  FORERUNNER 

Some  sayings,  as  he  thought  out  their  meaning,  deepened  for 
him  like  wells. 

"Thou  shalt  not  tempt  the  Lord  thy  God."  Was  this 
indeed  the  answer  to  the  question  of  his  whole  life,  *  Shall 
not  men  have  wings  ? ' 

"And  having  ended  all  his  temptation,  the  devil  departed 
from  him  for  a  season ."  What  did  that  mean?  When  did 
the  devil  return  to  him  again  ? 

Words  which  might  have  seemed  to  him  full  of  the  greatest 
error,  contrary  to  experience  and  natural  law,  still  did  not 
repel  him. 

1  If  ye  have  faith  as  a  grain  of  mustard-seed,  ye  shall  say 
unto  this  mountain,  Remove  hence  to  yonder  place,  and  it 
shall  remove.' 

He  had  always  thought  that  the  final  knowledge  and  the 
final  faith  would  lead  by  different  paths  to  the  same  goal,  the 
blending  of  outward  and  inward  necessity,  the  will  of  man 
and  the  will  of  God.  Yet  was  not  the  sting  of  the  words  in 
the  fact  that  to  have  faith,  even  as  a  grain  of  mustard-seed, 
was  more  difficult  than  to  see  the  mountain  remove  unto 
yonder  place? 

But  there  was  a  saying  of  Christ's  still  more  enigmatical : 
"I  thank  thee,  Father,  that  thou  hast  hid  these  things  from  the 
wise  and  prudent,  and  hast  revealed  them  unto  babes."  How 
reconcile  this  with  the  injunction,  "Be  ye  wise  as  serpents"? 

And,  again,  "Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  they  toil  not 
neither  do  they  spin.  Take  no  thought  saying  what  shall  we 
eat  or  what  shall  we  drink,  for  after  all  these  things  do  the 
Gentiles  seek,  and  your  heavenly  Father  knoweth  that  ye 
have  need  of  all  these  things." 

Leonardo  recalled  his  discoveries  and  inventions,  the 
machines  for  giving  men  power  over  nature,  and  asked 
himself: — 

'  Is  all  this  care  for  the  body — what  shall  we  eat  and  what 
shall  we  drink,  and  the  like— is  it  mammon  worship?  Is 
there  nothing  in  human  toil,  in  knowledge,  but  the  mere  profit  ? 
Is  knowledge  like  Martha,  who  is  careful  and  troubled  about 
many  things,  but  not  about  the  one  thing  needful?  Is  love 
like  Mary,  who  has  chosen  the  good  part  and  sitteth  at  the 
Master's  feet?' 

He  knew  by  experience  the  temptations  inseparable  from 
knowledge. 


DEATH— THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR         453 

It  seemed  to  the  dying  man  that  he  was  already  face  to 
face  with  the  black,  the  dreadful  pit,  into  which,  if  not  to-day 
then  to-morrow,  he  too  must  fall  with  a  last  despairing  cry : — 

4  My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? ' 

VIII 

Sometimes  of  a  morning,  when  he  looked  through  the 
frosted  windows  at  the  deep  snow,  the  grey  sky,  the  frozen 
water,  he  thought  the  winter  would  never  end.  But  in 
February  there  came  a  breath  of  warmth.  Drops  trickled 
noisily  from  the  icicles  at  the  sunny  side  of  the  houses,  the 
sparrows  twittered,  and  the  trees  were  girt  with  dark  circles 
where  the  snow  had  melted,  the  buds  swelled,  and  patches  of 
blue  sky  were  seen  among  the  clouds.  Francesco  placed 
his  master's  chair  in  a  sunny  window,  and  for  hours  the  old 
man  would  sit  quite  still  with  bent  head,  his  wasted  hands 
resting  upon  his  knees.  The  swallow  which  had  been 
rescued  from  the  first  frost  now  flew  and  circled  about  the 
room,  perched  on  Leonardo's  shoulder,  and  allowed  herself 
to  be  handled  and  kissed  on  the  head.  Suddenly  she  would 
start  up  and  again  fly  round  the  ceiling  with  impatient  cries 
as  if  scenting  the  spring.  He  followed  every  turn  of  her 
lithe  body,  every  movement  of  her  pinions.  The  old  idea  of 
wings  for  men  stirred  within  him. 

One  day  he  opened  a  large  chest  which  contained  his 
manuscript -books,  stray  drawings  and  sketches,  chiefly 
mechanical,  jottings  from  his  two  hundred  '  Books  of  Nature.' 
All  his  life  he  had  been  meaning  to  bring  order  into  this 
chaos,  to  sort  the  fragments  and  unite  them  in  one  whole, 
one  great  '  Book  of  the  Universe.'  He  knew  that  among 
them  were  ideas  and  discoveries  which  could  materially 
shorten  the  labours  of  those  men  who  were  to  come  after 
him.  He  knew  also  that  he  had  delayed  too  long,  that  it  was 
now  too  late,  that  all  his  sowing  would  fail  of  fruit,  that  all 
his  scientific  material  would  perish  like  the  Cenacolo,  the 
Colossus,  the  *  Battle  of  Anghiari.'  And  this,  because  in 
science  as  in  art  he  had  only  desired  with  a  wingless  desire, 
had  begun  and  not  finished,  had  accomplished  nothing.  He 
foresaw  that  men  would  ceek  what  he  had  found,  would 
discover  what  he  had  already  discovered,  would  walk  in  his 
paths,  in  his  very  steps ;  but  would  pass  him  by,  would  forget 


454  THE  FORERUNNER 

him  as  though  he  had  never  lived.  In  the  chest  he  found  a 
small  manuscript-book,  yellow  with  age,  and  entitled  ' Birds.' 
Of  late  years  he  had  scarcely  occupied  himself  with  the 
flying-machine,  though  he  still  often  thought  of  it.  To-day, 
watching  the  flight  of  his  tame  swallow,  a  new  idea  had  come 
to  him,  a  new  design  had  perfected  itself  in  his  mind,  and  he 
determined  to  make  a  last  attempt,  indulging  the  last  vain 
hope  that  by  the  finally  successful  making  of  wings  for  men 
the  whole  labour  of  his  life  would  be  justified. 

He  entered  on  this  new  task  with  the  same  resolution, 
with  the  same  feverish  haste  which  he  had  expended  on 
the  St.  John.  Ceasing  to  brood  over  death,  conquering  his 
weakness,  forgetting  his  food  and  his  sleep,  he  sat  for  whole 
days  and  nights  over  his  calculations  and  his  drawings. 
Francesco  watching  him  sometimes  feared  this  was  not  work 
but  the  delirium  of  a  sick  mind.  With  increasing  alarm  he 
noticed  how  the  Master's  face  became  distorted  under  the 
desperate  effort  of  will,  under  the  violent  desire  for  the 
impossible — which  men  may  not  seek  with  impunity. 

The  week  went  by  and  Francesco  never  left  him,  not  even 
to  sleep.  But  a  night  came  when  deadly  weariness  over- 
came the  youth ;  he  threw  himself  on  a  chair  by  the  fire  and 
dozed.  The  morning  came  grey  through  the  window,  the 
swallow  wakened  and  chirruped.  Leonardo  was  still  sitting 
at  his  work-table,  a  pen  in  his  hand ;  he  was  greatly  bent,  his 
head  almost  touching  the  paper.  Suddenly  he  trembled 
strangely,  the  pen  dropped  and  his  head  fell.  He  made  an 
effort  to  rise,  tried  to  call  Francesco,  but  could  make  no 
sound.  Heavily  and  helplessly  he  rolled  with  his  whole 
weight  upon  the  table  and  overturned  it.  Melzi,  awakened 
by  the  crash,  sprang  to  his  feet,  to  find  the  Master  lying  on 
the  floor,  his  candle  extinguished,  his  papers  scattered,  the 
terrified  swallow  flapping  her  wings  against  the  rafters  over- 
head.    He  realised  that  this  was  a  second  stroke. 

For  some  days  Leonardo  lay  unconscious,  making  occa- 
sional mutterings,  always  of  mathematics.  When  he  came  to 
himself  he  at  once  asked  for  his  sketches  of  the  flying- 
machine. 

'  Nay,  Master.  Ask  of  me  anything  else,  but  I  cannot  let 
you  work  till  you  have  mended  somewhat,' replied  Francesco. 

'Where  have  you  put  my  sketches?'  he  demanded, 
angrily. 


DEATH— THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR         455 

'  I  have  locked  them  in  the  attic.' 

'  Give  me  the  key.' 

'  Nay,  Master,  what  can  you  do  with  the  key  ? ' 

1  Give  it  me  this  instant.' 

Francesco  hesitated ;  the  invalid's  eyes  flashed  with  wrath. 
Not  to  excite  him,  the  young  man  gave  the  key.  Leonardo 
hid  it  under  his  pillow  and  seemed  satisfied.  His  recovery 
after  this  was  more  rapid  than  could  have  been  hoped.  In 
the  beginning  of  April  he  was  able  again  to  play  chess  with 
Fra  Guglielmo. 

One  night  Francesco,  sleeping  on  his  customary  bench  by 
the  Master's  side,  started  up  in  alarm,  for  he  could  not  hear 
Leonardo's  usually  heavy  breathing.  The  night-light  had 
been  extinguished ;  he  relit  it  hastily,  and  found  the  invalid's 
bed  empty ;  he  waked  Villanis  and  they  visited  all  the  rooms 
on  that  floor,  but  Leonardo  was  not  there.  Francesco  was 
going  downstairs,  when  he  remembered  the  sketches  hidden 
in  the  attic.  He  hastened  thither  and  found  the  door 
unlocked.  Leonardo,  half-dressed,  was  seated  on  the  floor 
before  an  old  box,  which  he  was  using  as  a  table.  By  the 
light  of  a  tallow  candle  he  was  writing,  while  he  muttered 
rapidly  as  if  delirious.  His  glowing  eyes,  his  matted  hair,  his 
brows  violently  contracted,  his  sunken  helpless  mouth,  his 
whole  appearance  was  so  strange  and  alarming  to  Francesco 
that  for  a  few  minutes  he  dared  not  enter. 

Suddenly  Leonardo  snatched  up  a  pencil  and  drew  it 
across  a  page  of  figures  so  violently  that  it  broke.  Then  he 
looked  round,  saw  his  pupil,  rose  and  tottered  towards  him. 

'I  told  you,  Francesco,'  he  said  quickly  and  bitterly,  'that 
I  should  soon  make  an  end.  Now  I  have  finished.  So  have 
no  fear,  I  shall  not  work  any  more.  'Tis  enough.  I  have 
grown  old  and  dull ;  more  dull  than  Astro.  I  know  nothing 
at  all.  What  I  have  known  I  forget.  Is  it  for  me  to  think 
of  wings  ?     To  the  devil  even  with  the  wings  ! ' 

And  seizing  his  papers  furiously  he  tore  and  trampled 
them. 

From  that  day  his  health  grew  worse.  He  returned  to  his 
bed,  and  Melzi  foresaw  that  he  would  not  again  rise  from 
it.     Sometimes  for  whole  days  he  lay  in  a  trance. 

Francesco  was  devout,  and  whatever  the  Church  taught  he 
believed  without  question.  Alone  of  Leonardo's  pupils  he 
had  not  fallen  under  the  influence  of  those  'fatal  spells',- 


456  THE  FORERUNNER 

that  'evil  eye '  attributed  to  the  Master.  Though  Leonardo 
did  not  observe  the  Church  ceremonials,  his  young  com- 
panion divined  by  the  instinct  of  love  that  he  was  not 
impious.  The  lad  did  not  try  to  penetrate  further  into  the 
great  man's  opinions.  Now,  however,  the  thought  that  he 
might  die  unabsolved  from  errors,  perhaps  from  heresies,  was 
torture  to  the  pious  youth.  He  was  afraid  to  address  the 
Master  on  the  subject,  but  he  would  have  given  his  life  to 
save  him. 

One  evening  Leonardo,  seeing  his  anxious  face,  asked  him 
what  were  his  thoughts.  Francesco  answered  with  some 
embarrassment. 

'  Fra  Guglielmo  came  this  morning  and  wanted  to  see  you. 
I  told  him  it  was  impossible ' 

The  Master  looked  at  his  young  attendant  and  saw  alarm, 
entreaty,  hope  on  his  face. 

'Francesco,  this  was  not  what  you  were  thinking.  Why 
will  you  not  tell  me  ?  ' 

The  pupil  was  silent,  his  eyes  downcast.  Leonardo  under- 
stood ;  he  turned  away  and  frowned.  He  had  always  wished 
to  die  as  he  had  lived,  in  complete  liberty;  in  the  truth,  so 
far  as  he  knew  it.  But  he  had  compassion  on  Francesco. 
Could  he,  in  these  last  hours  of  his  life,  embitter  a  simple 
heart,  bring  offences  once  more  upon  one  of  these  'little 
ones ' ? 

He  looked  again  at  his  pupil ;  laid  his  wasted  hand  on  the 
lad's  hand  and  said  with  a  quiet  smile : — 

1  My  son,  send  to  Fra  Guglielmo  and  bid  him  come  to- 
morrow. I  wish  to  confess  and  to  communicate.  Send  also 
for  Maitre  Guillaume.' 

Francesco  did  not  answer — he  kissed  Leonardo's  hand  in 
passionate  gratitude. 

IX 

The  next  morning,  Saturday  in  Passion  Week,  April  23rd, 
Maitre  Guillaume  the  notary  came,  and  Leonardo  imparted 
to  him  his  last  wishes.  He  bequeathed  four  hundred  florins 
to  his  brothers  in  token  of  reconciliation ;  to  Francesco 
Melzi  he  left  his  books,  scientific  apparatus,  machines,  manu- 
scripts, and  the  remainder  of  the  salary  due  to  him  from  the 
royal  treasury ;  to  Battista  Villanis,  his  household  furniture, 
and  the  half  of  the  vineyard  outside  the  walls  of  Milan ;  the 


DEATH— THE  WINGED  PRECURSOR  457 

other  half  he  left  to  his  pupil  Andrea  Salaino.  Maturina  was 
to  have  a  dress  of  good  black  cloth,  a  cloth  cap  trimmed  with 
fur,  and  two  ducats.  Melzi  was  named  executor,  and  the 
ordering  of  the  funeral  was  entrusted  to  him.  Francesco  was 
solicitous  that  all  should  be  arranged  in  a  manner  to  con- 
tradict popular  slanders,  and  make  it  clear  that  the  Master 
had  died  a  true  son  of  the  Catholic  Church.  Leonardo 
assented  to  all  he  proposed. 

Presently  Fra  Guglielmo  came  with  the  Holy  Viaticum,  and 
Leonardo  made  his  confession  and  received  the  Sacrament 
'according  to  the  rites  of  the  Church';  'in  all  humility  and 
submission  to  the  will  of  God,'  as  the  monk  afterwards  told 
Francesco ;  adding  that  whatever  might  be  said  against  the 
Master  he  would  be  justified  by  the  words  of  the  Lord, 
'Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart  for  they  shall  see  God.'  All 
day  he  suffered  from  breathlessness,  but  he  survived  the 
night,  and  on  the  morning  of  Easter  Sunday  seemed  a  little 
easier. 

Francesco  opened  the  window.  Pigeons  were  flying  in  the 
blue  air,  and  the  rustle  of  their  flight  mingled  with  the  chime 
of  the  Easter  bells. 

The  dying  man  no  longer  heard  nor  saw  what  was  passing 
around  him.  He  imagined  great  weights  falling  and  rolling 
on  him  and  crushing  him.  With  an  effort  he  freed  himself 
and  was  flying  upward  on  gigantic  wings.  Again  the  weights 
fell,  again  he  conquered  them,  and  so  on,  again  and  again. 
And  each  time  the  weight  was  heavier,  the  struggle  to  overcome 
it  more  desperate ;  till  at  last  he  gave  up  the  attempt,  crying 
aloud  a  despairing  cry. 

He  resigned  himself  to  defeat.  And  then  immediately  he 
realised  that  the*  weights  and  the  wings,  the  falling  and  the 
flight  were  all  one ;  '  above '  and  '  below '  were  the  same,  and 
he  was  borne  along  on  the  waves  of  eternal  motion  gently  as 
in  a  mother's  arms. 

For  some  days  longer  his  body  lived,  but  he  never  recovered 
consciousness.  On  the  morning  of  May  2nd  Francesco  and 
Fra  Guglielmo  noticed  that  his  breathing  had  grown  feebler. 
The  monk  read  the  prayers  for  the  dying ;  a  little  later,  and 
the  young  man  had  closed  his  eyes. 

The  face  of  the  dead  man  changed  but  little  ;  it  wore  the 
expression,  so  frequent  in  his  lifetime,  of  profound  and  quiet 
attention. 


453  THE  FORERUNNER 

The  windows  were  widely  opened,  and  Francesco  and  the 
two  old  servants  were  performing  the  last  offices  for  the 
corpse.  Suddenly  the  tame  swallow,  which  of  late  had  been 
forgotten,  flew  into  the  room,  circled  over  the  dead  man,  and 
settled  at  last  upon  his  folded  hands. 

He  was  buried  at  the  monastery  of  St.  Florentine,  but  the 
exact  site  of  his  grave  is  unknown. 

Writing  to  Florence  to  the  Master's  brothers  Francesco 
thus  expressed  himself: — 

1 1  cannot  tell  the  grief  occasioned  to  me  by  the  death  of 
him  who  was  more  to  me  than  a  father.  Long  as  I  live  I 
shall  mourn  him.  He  loved  me  with  a  great  and  tender  love. 
The  whole  world  will  grieve  for  the  loss  of  a  man  whose  like 
Natu.e  herself  will  not  create  again. 

'  May  the  Almighty  God  grant  him  everlasting  peace  1 ' 


EPILOGUE 

Now  it  so  happened  that  just  at  the  time  when  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  died,  a  certain  young  Russian  courtier  named  Eutychius 
came  a  second  time  to  Amboise  in  the  train  of  Karachiarov, 
the  Russian  ambassador.  On  his  journey  this  young  courtier, 
who  brought  a  gift  of  gold  and  of  priceless  Persian  falcons  for 
King  Francis,  visited  Florence,  and  had  seen  the  bas-relief  on 
the  Campanile,  which  represented  Daedalus  experimenting 
with  waxen  wings.  It  had  given  Leonardo  in  his  boyhood 
the  first  idea  of  Wings  for  Man ;  and  now  it  was  of  interest 
to  the  young  Russian,  who  in  his  spare  time,  for  pleasure, 
was  painting  an  ecclesiastical  icon  of '  The  Winged  Precursor.' 
With  vague  and  half-  prophetic  awe  he  contemplated  the 
contrast  between  the  material  wings  constructed  by  Daedalus, 
who  was  perhaps  assisted  by  demons,  and  the  spiritual  wings 
— 'upon  which  pure  souls  rise  to  God' — of  the  *  Incarnate 
Angel,'  the  Precursor,  St.  John  the  Baptist. 

While  at  Amboise,  Eutychius  one  day  obtained  leave  to 
visit  the  chateau  of  Cloux,  where  the  deceased  Master, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  had  lived.  The  party  was  received  by 
Francesco  Melzi,  who  showed  them  the  studio  and  all  it 
contained.  They  inspected  the  strange  instruments,  the 
apparatus  for  the  study  of  the  laws  of  sound,  the  great  crystal 
eye  for  experiments  on  sight,  the  diving-bell,  the  anatomical 
drawings,  the  designs  for  engines  of  war.  All  this  was 
interesting;  but  for  Eutychius  the  supreme  attraction  was 
the  broken  frame  of  a  wing  resembling  the  pinion  of  a  great 
swallow.  He  learned  from  Melzi  of  its  history  and  its  purpose; 
and  strange  thoughts  rose  in  his  breast  as  he  remembered 
Daedalus  on  the  marble  tower  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore. 

Presently  he  stood  in  bewilderment  before  the  dead 
Leonardo's  picture  of  St.  John  the  Baptist.  The  appearance 
of  the  Forerunner  was  almost  that  of  a  woman ;  yet  he  carried 
the  reed  cross,  and  was  clothed  with  camel's  hair.     He  was 


46o  THE  FORERUNNER 

not  like  the  Winged  Precursor  familiar  to  the  painter  of  icons ; 
but  his  charm  was  irresistible.  What  was  the  significance  of  the 
subtle  smile  with  which  he  pointed  to  the  cross  of  Golgotha? 

Eutychius  stood  spell-bound,  scarce  listening  to  the 
animadversions  of  his  fellows.  'What?  this  beardless,  naked, 
effeminate  youth,  the  Precursor  ?  Not  of  Christ,  then,  but  of 
Antichrist — accursed  for  ever  ! ' 

Eutychius  heard  without  heeding ;  and  when  he  came  away 
the  mysterious  figure  of  the  wingless  one,  fair  as  a  woman, 
with  flowing  locks  like  Dionysus,  pointing  to  the  cross — 
haunted  him  like  a  vision. 

The  young  Russian  painter  was  lodged  in  an  attic  beside 
the  dovecot;  and  had  arranged  his  working  place  in  the 
recess  of  the  dormer-window. 

He  busied  himself  with  the  painting  of  the  icon,  already 
nearly  completed,  of  St.  John  the  Baptist.  The  saint 
stood  on  a  sun-burnt  hill,  round,  like  the  edge  of  a  globe. 
It  was  bordered  by  the  purple  sea,  and  canopied  by  the 
blue  vault  of  heaven.  The  figure  carried  in  its  hand  a  head, 
which  was  the  duplicate  of  his  own,  but  seemed  that  of  a 
corpse.  Thus  Eutychius  had  tried  to  show  that  the  man 
who  has  slain  in  himself  all  that  is  human  may  attain  to  a 
more  than  human  flight.  His  face  was  terrible  and  strange ; 
his  gaze  like  the  gaze  of  an  eagle,  fixed  upon  the  sun.  His 
hair  and  beard  floated  on  the  blast,  his  raiment  was  like  the 
plumage  of  a  bird.  His  limbs  were  long  and  gave  an  impres- 
sion of  singular  lightness.  On  his  shoulder  were  set  great 
swan-like  wings,  extended  over  the  tawny  earth  and  the 
purple  sea. 

To-night  Eutychius  had  little  more  to  do  than  to  touch 
the  inner  side  of  the  plumes  with  gold.  But  his  attention 
wandered,  he  thought  of  Daedalus  and  of  Leonardo;  he 
remembered  the  face  of  the  wingless  youth  in  the  Master's 
last  picture,  and  found  it  eclipsing  that  of  the  winged  one 
which  he  had  drawn  himself.  His  hand  grew  heavy  and 
uncertain;  the  brush  fell;  his  strength  failed.  He  left 
his  room  and  wandered  for  hours  along  the  banks  of  the 
silent  river. 

The  sun  had  set;  the  pale  green  sky,  the  evening  stars 
rvere  reflected  in  the  water,  but  in  the  east  clouds  were 
rising,  and  summer  lightning  quivered  in  the  air  as  if  waving 
fiery  wings. 


EPILOGUE  461 

Returning,  he  lit  the  lamp  before  the  icon  of  the  Virgin, 
and  threw  himself  on  his  bed.  He  could  not  sleep,  but  lay 
tossing  and  shivering  feverishly  for  hour  after  hour,  fancying 
weird  rustlings  and  whispers  in  the  stillness,  and  remember- 
ing all  the  eerie  tales  of  the  Russian  folk-lore. 

Wearied  and  wakeful,  Eutychius  tried  to  read.  He  selected 
an  old  book  at  random,  and  the  familiar  Russian  legend  of 
the  *  Crown  of  the  Kingdom  of  Babylon,'  and  of  the  world-wide 
sovereignty  destined  by  God  for  the  land  of  Russia.  Then 
Eutychius  turned  a  page  and  read  another  legend,  that  of 
'The  White  Hood.' 

In  days  of  yore  Constantine  the  emperor,  having  accepted 
the  Christian  faith  and  received  absolution  for  his  sins  from 
Sylvester  the  pope,  desired  to  give  the  pontiff  a  kingly  crown. 
But  an  angel,  appearing  unto  him,  bade  him  give  a  crown  not 
of  earthly  but  of  spiritual  supremacy — a  White  Hood  like  unto 
a  monkish  cowl.  Nevertheless  the  Roman  Church  laid  claim 
to  temporal  no  less  than  to  spiritual  power ;  wherefore  the 
angel  appeared  to  the  pope  and  commanded  him  to  send  the 
Hood  to  Philotheus,  the  Patriarch  of  Constantinople;  and 
when  he  would  have  retained  it,  there  appeared  unto  the 
Patriarch  another  vision :  Constantine  the  emperor  and 
Sylvester  the  pope,  bidding  him  send  on  the  Hood  yet  further, 
into  the  country  of  Russia,  to  Novgorod  the  Great. 

'For,'  said  Sylvester  in  this  dream,  'the  first  Rome  has 
fallen  by  her  pride  and  self-will;  and  Constantinople,  the 
second  Rome,  is  like  to  perish  by  the  fury  of  the  infidel ;  but 
in  the  third  Rome,  which  shall  be  in  the  land  of  Russia,  the 
light  of  the  Holy  Ghost  is  already  shining,  and  at  the  last  all 
Christian  nations  shall  be  united  in  the  Russian  dominion 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Orthodox  faith.* 

Each  time  Eutychius  read  these  tales,  a  vague  and  boundless 
hope  filled  his  soul.  His  heart  beat  and  his  breath  caught, 
as  though  he  were  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  For 
it  seemed  that  the  legend  of  the  Babylonian  kingdom  was 
prophetic  of  earthly  greatness ;  that  of  the  White  Hood,  of 
heavenly  glory  for  his  native  land.  However  poor,  however 
wretched  she  might  be  now  in  comparison  with  other 
countries,  still  she  was  to  be  the  third  Rome,  the  new  Zion ; 
and  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  were  destined  to  shine  on  the 
seventeen  golden  domes  of  the  Russian  church  of  St.  Sophia, 
the  Wisdom  of  God.     And  yet,  he  asked  himself,  how  should 


462  THE  FORERUNNER 

it  be  that  the  White  Hood,  the  third,  the  holiest  Rome, 
should  unite  itself  with  the  hateful  crown  of  Nebuchadnezzar, 
who  had  been  cursed  of  God,  whose  city  was  Babylon,  and 
accursed  in  the  Book  of  Revelation.  The  young  painter's 
effort  to  solve  the  riddle  brought  fantastic  vision  to  his  hot 
brain. 

He  fell  asleep,  and  he  too  dreamed  a  dream  : 

He  saw  a  Woman  in  shining  garments,  with  flaming  coun- 
tenance and  fiery  wings,  standing  among  fleeting  clouds, 
her  feet  on  the  crescent  moon  ;  over  her  was  a  seven-pillared 
tabernacle,  with  the  inscription  : — 

4  Wisdom  hath  builded  her  an  house.' 

Prophets  and  patriarchs  surrounded  her,  saints  and  angels, 
thrones  and  dominions  and  powers,  and  all  the  company  of 
Heaven.  And  among  the  prophets  at  Wisdom's  very  foot 
stood  John  the  Precursor  with  his  white  plumes  as  on  the 
icon,  but  wearing  the  face  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  who  had 
dreamed  of  wings  for  men.  And  behind  the  Woman,  golden 
cupolas  and  pinnacles  of  churches  innumerable  glowed  like 
fire  in  the  azure  sky ;  and  beyond  them  stretched  a  gloriously 
boundless  expanse,  which  Eutychius  recognised  as  the  land  of 
Russia. 

Belfries  shook  with  a  triumphant  peal;  angels  sang 
victorious  Alleluia ;  the  seven  archangels  smote  their  wings, 
and  the  seven  thunders  spoke.  And  above  the  fire-clothed 
Woman,  Hagia  Sophia,  the  Wisdom  of  God,  the  heavens 
opened,  and  bright  as  the  sun — terrible — shone  the  White 
Hood,  the  heavenly  head-dress,  over  the  land  of  Russia. 


Eutychius  awoke.  He  opened  the  windows,  and  to  him 
was  wafted  the  fragrance  of  leaves  and  grasses  washed  by  rain. 
The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but  gold  and  purple  decked  the 
place  of  his  coming — the  skyey  verge  above  the  woods,  and 
the  river,  and  the  fields.  The  town  still  slept  in  twilight; 
only  the  belfry  of  St.  Hubert  glistened  with  a  pale  green  light. 
The  hush  was  full  of  great  expectation.  Far  away  on  the 
sand-banks  of  the  Loire  the  white  swans  were  calling. 

Suddenly,  like  a  live  coal,  the  sun  shone  out  behind  the 
forest.  Something  like  music  passed  across  the  earth  and 
the  heaven.  Pigeons  shook  their  wings  and  rose  in  circles. 
Day,  entering  the  window,  fell  full  on  the  icon  of  the  Fore- 


EPILOGUE  463 

runner ;  the  wings,  extended  over  lands  and  seas,  flashed  and 
sparkled  in  the  morning  radiance,  as  if  informed  with  super- 
natural life. 

Eutychius,  dipping  his  brush  into  crimson,  wrote  these 
words  on  the  scroll  upon  the  icon,  under  the  Winged  Pre- 
cursor : — 

"  Behold  I  will  send  my  messenger  before  my  face,  and  he 
shall  prepare  my  way  before  me." 


THE  END 


•  THOU  ART  THYSELF  THY  GOD,  THYSELF  THY  NEIGHBOUR  : 
O  BE  AS  WELL  THINE  OWN  CREATOR  TOO  ; 
BE  THE  ABYSS  ABOVE,  THE  DEPTH  BELOW  ; 
AT  ONCE  THINE  OWN   END,  AND  THINE  OWN   BEGINNING.' 


THE 

DEATH  OF  THE  GODS 

By  DMITRI  MEREJKOWSKI 

Author  of  "  The  Romance  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,"  etc. 


Authorized  English  version  by  Herbert  Trench. 
i2°.     $1.50. 

"  A  fine  piece  of  work.  Out  of  the  perplexed  chapters  of 
Julian's  career,  Merejkowski  has  constructed  something  which 
might  be  called  a  drama,  full  of  episodes,  lurid,  intense,  pas- 
sionate .  .  .  with  a  power  to  enlist  and  hold  the  attention 
of  the  reader.  The  Russian  writer  is  evidently  a  close  and 
unwearied  student." — London  Daily  Telegraph. 

"Should  meet  with  a  good  hearing  in  England  and 
America.  .  .  .  The  subject  —  the  career  of  Julian  the 
Apostate — is  certainly  most  fascinating." — The  Athenceum. 

"  Here,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  reading,  we  are  ready  to  admit 
another  to  the  select  circle  of  great  historical  novels,  and 
they  are  few.  .  .  .  Julian,  as  the  intellectual  and  active 
meeting  point  of  the  old  world  and  the  new,  is  the  most  re- 
markable figure  of  his  epoch." — Daily  Chronicle. 

"  With  the  ardor  as  of  Flaubert  in  '  Salammbo,'  and  with 
perhaps  more  skill  than  Sienkiewicz  in  'Quo  Vadis,'  he  has 
succeeded  in  recreating  the  wonderful  rich  scenes  and  char- 
acters of  the  period." — The  Observer. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


The   Romance  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci 


The 
Forerunner 

(  The  Resurrection 
of  the  Gods) 


By 
DMITRI  MEREJKOWSKI 

Author  of  "The  Death  of  the  Gods,"  "Tolstoi  as  Man  and  Artist,"  etc. 


12°.  $1.50. 

' '  A  novel  of  very  remarkable  interest  and  power.  Most 
vivid  and  picturesque." — Guardian. 

14  A  finer  study  of  the  artistic  temperament  at  its  best  could 
scarcely  be  found.  And  Leonardo  is  the  centre  of  a  crowd  of 
striking  figures.  It  is  impossible  to  speak  too  highly  of  the 
dramatic  power  with  which  they  are  presented,  both  singly 
and  in  combination.  A  very  powerful  piece  of  work,  stand- 
ing higher  above  the  level  of  contemporary  fiction  than  it 
would  be  easy  to  say." — Spectator. 

"  A  remarkable  work." — Morning  Post. 

M  Takes  the  reader  by  assault.  One  feels  the  impulsion  of 
a  vivid  personality  at  the  back  of  it  all." — Academy. 

"  It  amazes,  while  it  wholly  charms,  by  the  power  of 
imagery,  the  glowing  fancy,  the  earnestness  and  enthusiasm 
with  which  the  writer  conjures  Italy  of  the  Renaissance  from 
the  past  into  the  living  light." — London  World. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


GOOD  FICTION 


Patricia  of  the  Hills 

By  Charles  Kennett  Burrow. 

12°.     (By  mail,  $1.10.)    Net        .         .         .         .     $1.00 

44  Patriotism  without  unreasonableness ;  love  of  the  open  air  and  the 
free  hills  without  exaggeration  ;  romance  without  over-gush  ;  humor  and 
melancholy  side  by  side  without  morbidness  ;  an  Irish  dialect  stopping 
short  of  excess ;  a  story  full  of  sincere  feeling. "—  The  Nation. 

44  No  more  charming  romance  of  the  old  sod  has  been  published  in  a 
long  time."— N.  Y.  World. 

44  A  very  pretty  Irish  story." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 


Eve   Triumphant 

By  Pierre  de  Coulevain.     Translated  by  Alys  Hallard. 
12°.     (By  mail,  $1.35.)    Net       ....     $1.20 

44  Clever,    stimulating,  interesting,    ...     a  brilliant  mingling  of 
salient  truth,  candid  opinion,  and  witty  comment." — Chicago  Record. 

44  An  audacious  and  satirical  tale  which  embodies  a  great  deal  of  clever 
and  keen  observation."— Detroit  Free  Press. 

44  An  extremely  clever  work  of  fiction." — Louisville  Courier-Journal. 


Monsieur   Martin 

A  Romance  of  the  Great  Swedish  War.   By  Wymond  Carey. 
12°.     (By  mail,  $1.35.)    Net        ....     $1.20 

44  It  was  with  genuine  pleasure  that  we  read  4  M.  Martin.'  .  .  . 
We  cordially  admire  it  and  sincerely  hope  that  all  who  read  this  page  will 
also  read  the  book." — From  a  Column  Review  in  the  Syracuse  Herald. 

44  Wymond  Carey's  name  must  be  added  to  the  list  of  authors  whose 
first  books  have  given  them  a  notable  place  in  the  world  of  letters,  for 
1  Monsieur  Martin '  is  one  of  the  best  of  recent  historical  romances." — 
Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

44  Mr.  Wymond  Carey  has  given  us  much  pleasure  in  reading  his  book, 
and  we  are  glad  to  praise  it." — Baltimore  Sun. 


New  York  — G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS  — London 


GOOD    FICTION 


The  House  Opposite 

A  Mystery.      By    Elizabeth   Kent.       iamo,    cloth,    net, 
fi.oo;  i6mo,  paper,  socts. 

"  Not  an  unnecessary  word  in  the  whole  book,  and  the  intri- 
cacies of  the  plot  are  worked  out  so  skilfully  that  the  reader 
will  not  guess  the  final  denouement  until  he  reaches  the  last 
chapter." — Omaha  World- Her  aid. 

"  A  good  story  of  its  kind  that  can  be  recommended  with- 
out reserve." — N.  Y,  Sun. 


The  Sheep-Stealers 

A  Romance  of  the  West  of  England.  By  Violet  Jacob. 
i2mo,  net,  $1.20.  By  mail,  $1,35. 
41  We  have  seldom  read  a  book  with  a  happier  mixture  of 
romance  and  realism — so  fresh,  so  original,  so  wholesome. 
Her  style  is  excellent, — lucid,  natural,  unaffected." — London 
Spectator. 


The  Poet  and  Penelope 

By  L.  Parry  Truscott.  i2mo  (By  mail,  $1.10),  net,  $1.00. 
11  The  book  is  delightful  from  first  to  last.  Mr.  Truscott 
tells  his  story  daintily  and  lightly ;  but  he  is  not  merely  a 
writer  of  graceful  comedy.  He  understands  men  and  women. 
Each  one  of  his  characters  is  a  personage  in  his  or  her  way, 
and  there  is  a  subtlety  in  the  drawing  of  the  hero  and  the 
heroine  that  gives  the  story  reality."— London  World. 


New  York— G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS— London 


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